


However long it takes

by aswerene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aswerene/pseuds/aswerene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up... here."</p>
<p>Sam makes the sacrifice, fate is changed and Dean bears the consequences. He dreams of a life he never lived, of dangerous hunts he never went on, black eyed demons he never believed in and a brother he never got the chance to meet but loves with his whole being. And at the end of the world, watching Michael and Lucifer burn both sky and ground in their last match, Dean falls, Castiel's ashen remains slipping through his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However long it takes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone for reading this! Or, maybe just clicking on the link out of curiosity. Either way, thanks!
> 
> This is the first thing I’ve written in years. Since I’m not a native speaker, please forgive the occasional odd word choice.
> 
> First of all, thanks kuwlshadow for the wonderful art to my story! Working with you has been a pleasure and a great experience! Maybe we can match again in the future? That'd be awesome! Keep doing more art, you have talent, girl!  
> See her wonderful art here: http://kuwlshadow.livejournal.com/44502.html
> 
> And thanks to many other people, who have helped with the story (be it cheerleading, beta-ing, and much more). If you've helped me somehow, even just a little, I owe you! 
> 
> And thanks for this event and the great experience my first Big Bang has been! (Now I just need to get the hang of this ao3 thing...)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

The sky burns.  
Red fire flickers left and right, it rains smoke.  
The earth is laid to ruins.  
One day, one hour, it didn’t take any longer for them to ban life from this place, to torch the ground and burn the sky. Dean imagined them wielding swords. But for this destruction, they don’t need weapons. One raises his arm, the other lowers his stance; the ground shakes, cracks, crumbles.

They’re face to face, one mirrored by the other. Their hair is blazing, their eyes glowing. A volcano, an earthquake, competing against another, as to who can deal more damage to the earth.  
Their power seems endless. The last white clouds dissolve and the first scalding rain falls. Every drop sets another tree, another field on fire.

Dean’s eyes water, his lungs burn from the smoke.  
Castiel’s red stained coat falls to pieces beneath his fingers. All life, breathing and not, fades into black nothingness. Dean can feel their powers tugging at his skin, his hair and nails. They’ll rip him apart as well.

The seconds stretch longer and longer, until the world stops spinning entirely.  
This is the last chance. The bullets did no harm.  
They circle the other, watchful, but their hands bleed and their eyes shed red tears. Dean can only see white blown pupils, filled to the brink with rage and power. They both must know that neither will survive this fight.

As they cross the ground, their feet crush the skulls of mammals and insects, fallen as they died from fire and heat. The sound is the same, albeit much quieter, when Castiel’s skull broke into pieces and their glowing energy burned his insides to dust.

The rain can’t reach them as it poisons the ground; about 20 feet above their heads the drops burst into smoke.  
This is the last chance.

“Stop!”  
Dean can’t run, but he can crawl. His leg drags behind him, useless. Just a few more inches, just a few more inches. The drops of rain melt his skin.

“Adam, Nicci!”  
Their eyes turn on him. White, unseeing marbles. Then their power rips his chest apart.

 

 

**********

 

 

For Dean, John Winchester is an icon. A story missing its ending. It starts with a kiss pressed to his forehead. It ends with a door bang. The rest is silence.

There had been no happy ending and it had taken years for Dean to realize why. First through anger, then sadness. And after he had burned the last pictures of him and John together, indifference. Today Dean Winchester is ready to shape his own happy ending, without a wife, kids and a white picket fence. His mother’s last wish, before she stopped pushing him to become better, stronger, sharper, kinder, is not his own wish. But what else could he strive for?  
John had been supposed to be Mary’s happy ending. All he left behind is his name.  
And regrets.

Mary still lives in the same house, still sleeps in the same bed, still uses the same name. The name WINCHESTER doesn’t haunt Kansas the way CAMPBELL does. Every neighbor knows the stories. How a girl lost her parents to murder, but was rescued by her boyfriend and future husband. Only to lose him as well. CAMPBELLS are victims; the name brings tears and pain. WINCHESTERS are heroes.

Dean never questioned his mother’s choice. She had always known best.  
And after many years he had realized the truth. He hadn’t been enough. And year after year, when May comes around, Mary works overtime at the hospital to stop the memories from coming back. And Dean loses himself in the knowledge of his failure. To never forget that the joy he brought his parents by being born wasn’t strong enough to keep them together.

But what Kansas, what all their neighbors don’t know, is that John Winchester wasn’t the hero they make him out to be. He was just at the right place, at the right time. John was all his mother had and all she clung to, when her life burned to ashes. The joy of the first years of their marriage turned sour and bitter once Mary realized she couldn’t turn back anymore. They had Dean, named after the greatest tragedy of her life, and their family managed to stick together a few more years. There’s was nothing and nobody else they could have turned to but each other.

After they lost Sammy, their little wonder without gender, shape or face, everything shattered. As their greatest wish faded from life, so did John Winchester. After a few more months, he too faded. He left on May 1st.

Dean hadn’t been enough. His mother had never blamed him, but Dean knows why. He is all she has left now. Once upon a time, he had been his parents hope to save their marriage. When he hadn’t been enough, they had tried for another. Dean had been an accident, welcome at that time, but insufficient when it came to making them happy.  
Sammy, little Sammy had been their wish, their greatest joy. And their last belief.

 

 

**********

 

 

“ _Hello?_ ”  
Pause  
“ _Is this…Dean?_ ”  
“ _Yes. Who’s there?_ ”  
“ _This is Adam…I’m-I…_ ”  
“ _Spill it kid, what do you want? How’d you get this number?_ ”  
“ _Da-…John gave it to m-_ ”  
Dial Tone

 

 

Once John Winchester had tried to mend the ties he had cut. Years after he had vanished into the night, he had come back. No flowers, no explanation given. One morning he had stood in their driveway, leaning against his car.  
Dean still remembers said Friday. It had been early, way before time for school. His mother had worked the night shift and had still been up to make his breakfast. She had seen him first. She had stepped outside, right towards the man Dean had recognized as his father. No, the man who had given him life.

Mary hadn’t allowed John to come inside. She had put herself between him and the house. But Dean had been young, hopeful even. He had run outside as John spilled his own guilt and regrets to his mother. There was someone else. John needed Mary to tell him they were alright, that she and Dean could manage on their own.

Mary and John had never divorced and to this day Dean is sure they still are married on paper. John’s guilt and Mary’s fear kept them from separating completely. Threads still held them together, stronger than their pain and regrets and the wish to start all over again.  
Kate Milligan knew as much, when she and John moved in together. She would never be his wife. But they had a house. They had kids. Their life was the one Dean had wished for, prayed for until the sunny Friday in February, when John had asked his wife for permission to love again.

Dean couldn’t blame Adam and Nicci for the choice his father had made. They were born into John’s second chance at happiness without their consent. And despite Dean’s jealousy over his own missed chance, he has no reason to begrudge them theirs. Life deals everyone their own challenges. Dean mastered his. He has his own apartment, a job, occasional girlfriends. He can provide for himself.

Adam and Nicci still have their challenge ahead of them.

It’s been a year now since Kate Milligan died.  
December 2005 a house fire took Kate’s life, mother of twins, beloved friend to many. Even Mary had shed a tear for her, when the news had reached them. It wasn’t John, but Adam who made them aware, who called Dean again and again to ask for guidance, help, anything. He had been 14, scared and overcome with grief. To this day Dean regrets not driving to Minnesota.

Now, a year later, he still stares at his phone and dozens of messages Adam had send him, when he needs a reminder of his second great failure. Some texts are a plea for help. Some curse words, laced with desperation and fear. It’s too late now. They’ve stopped coming months ago and Dean can’t bring himself to answer. Adam looks like him, which is both a curse and a blessing. Dean wishes his half brothers didn’t look as similar. It makes them family, as much as Dean would like to ignore it. Dean feels attached, at least a little. He can worry about Adam without caring too much. And Nicci… Nicci is just a name to Dean, someone he knows looks like Adam, but where the older twin has reached out to Dean, trying to make a connection, Nicci has kept his distance.

Dean has one photo of John’s other family, one little token taken from a newspaper article he had found on a website after searching for the incident Adam had brought to their knowledge. John Winchester, Kate Milligan, and their two little twins. The picture had been old, taken a few years before the accident, the twins even dressed in similar clothes. The newspaper had titled the left one Adam, but Dean is pretty sure that can’t be right.

It’s nearing 8 am, time for Dean to drink the last bit of his coffee, brush his teeth and leave for work. The garage is busy this time of the year. A lot of people want to get their cars ready for the new year. They get a bonus from their work and are finally able to afford a check up, to get broken things removed and mended.

When Dean gets back from the bathroom, he goes to grab his cell phone from the kitchen table. It blinks. One message.

 

_Dean. I need your help. Get back to me. John._

 

 

**********

 

 

57.  
Dean comes up with 57 reasons to not call John, to not give into his urge to hear his voice, ask him what he suddenly needs his forgotten son’s help for.  
John has no right to come back into his life, to talk to him, to demand something from him, whatever it might be. Dean deserves peace, quiet, silence.

But, but, but… a voice keeps whispering, nagging.  
But, but, but… what if, what if, what if…

The doubts haunt him all the day, the questions, what might be, what could have been. Is he ready for another letdown? John is not a father, has never been. Never has he apologized. Never has Dean asked him to. Despite Kate, despite Adam, despite Nicholas.  
Dean Alexander Winchester is his own man and his father is just the shadow he grew out of when he was 8 and realized that fathers left their families because they didn’t love them enough.

Every few hours he reads the message again. Help? What help could Dean possibly be.  
He’s a mechanic, he barely passed high school. He is proud of his work, his life, because he did it all on his own. At 5 he made his own breakfast, when Mary was too tired, too worn to get out of bed. At 8 he packed his own lunch, bought the books he needed for school. 13, he was arrested the first time for stealing money. At 14 the second time. When he turned 15 he had his first job. At 18 he moved out of the house. Not the city, not the state. But across town and gained his own freedom.

Dean manages to last the day at the garage without calling back or writing anything as response. He spills a bit more oil than usually, trips over a few things, but nobody seems to care.

There’s a decision to be made. To help or to not help, to call or not call. Dean’s good at keeping his life in line, do all he has to do to stay alive, keep his job, pay his rent. But decisions aren’t his forte. He’s been held in police cells too often for that.  
Mary always knew best. When Dean was 8, old enough to make his own breakfast for school and make sure his clothes were always washed and dry by the time he’d need them, he was still scared of monsters under his bed.

After another sleepless night, Mary had decided that it was time for Dean to face his fear. He’d grow out of his fear, right now, this very weekend. She set up “traps” of pillows and blankets, rubber bands and cord, to catch any monster that might haunt their house. She made Dean complete his own traps. By the end of the weekend, they had caught 2 teddy bears and one decorative pillow. Dean wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore.  
He could trap whatever was inside of it, if he chose to.

Today Dean needs another decision.

He pulls up on the driveway, stops the engine and enters the house through the back door. Mary doesn’t mind him coming in unannounced, just sometimes she’s not home to greet him. Today she’s waiting.

Mary sits at the kitchen table, in the left hand a cup of coffee, in the right the newspaper. As she sees Dean come in, she puts both things down.

“You’re not going to Bobby’s.” Her eyes shine brightly.

Dean doesn’t know how, but she knows.

 

 

**********

 

 

The world still spins. All the words and phrases clash together in his mind; they make no sense, they just take up all the space and keep him disorientated and confused.

Robert Singer, gun, salt, ashes, pain, murder, journal, hunting…

The list grows as Mary keeps talking.

“No,” she insists. “This is not going to be your life. No.”

Runes, rituals, spirit, vengeance, peaceful, banish, iron, holy water…

Mary shakes her head. Tears gather in her eyes, her knuckles have turned white around the cup of now cold coffee.

Damned, curse, monster, suffer, Bobby, family, John, John, John…

His name makes her cry. But she doesn’t stop, she keeps talking, sharing her memories with Dean. About a life she had and chose to abandon. About a life that has caught up with her when she thought herself free of its terror.  
Robert – Bobby – Singer gives name to a horror she had tried to outrun.

“John called me first”, she confesses. But she can’t help him. “I made a deal”, she says and her hard, clipped tone makes Dean cringe. Gone is the mother who sang him lullabies. Gone is the mother who caught the darkness and fear for him. Gone is the mother who could make him feel safe just by being near.  
Mary Winchester had once lived a different life. There’s no way for Dean to believe anything she tells him. No way could any of it be true. But Dean knows his mother. She isn’t lying.

Throughout her speech Dean didn’t sit down. He still stands in the kitchen, right beside the cupboard with the coffee mugs and glasses.

“Do you understand, Dean?”

He nods. Shakes his head. Nods again.  
Dean closes his eyes and just breathes for a few peaceful moments. He can still feel his mother watching him. For a moment he stops the world around him and tries to imagine his mother as the person she told him she was. A hunter. His mother was a hunter.

She told him about it, the main parts, without the gory details but detailed enough for Dean to imagine the blood and pain und fear of this time. Monsters, she had said. We hunted monsters. Not the ones Dean was afraid of at 8, the creepy but kind of cute little terrors that were born and buried in his mind. No, real monsters, with sharp teeth and claws.  
Hunters keep everyone safe, Mary insisted. They suffer, they die, but their whole life is dedicated to their purpose. Trying to make a difference. She had explained her own family, the life she had been born into and the tragedy that had ended it.

“I made a deal”, she had said several times. Her tone had always changed and her eyes had hardened. “I can’t go back to hunting; part of the deal-…” and then she had been lost to her own memories and regrets.

The silence suffocates them both. Mary spilled coffee on the table, nearly broke her cup by gripping it too hard. Dean hasn’t moved, can’t. In his mind Mary is still running through the woods, a blood-red cape hanging unto her shoulders. Her clothes are dirty and torn; she carries a men’s head in her basket and a wolf is howling in the distance. Dean shakes his head, clears his mind. This is insane. Monsters belong in fairytales, not into his home or his mothers mind.

“Mom-“ he starts, but his voice dies. He swallows and swallows, tries to make another sound, form another word, but he can’t. There’s nothing he can say. His mother isn’t lying. But if she isn’t, then she must be mad. Neither is acceptable.

His mother is the one person in his life he can rely on. She is strong, she is powerful in her own way. Her parent’s death never broke her; John nearly did, but she is still here, still trying her best. There had been hard times, for both of them, but when Mary had needed a shoulder to lean on, Dean had been there. As she had been for him when he had been a child.  
Today, Dean wants to be her strength, her pillar, her solace. She might be sick, scaring herself with stories of monsters and mayhem to run from a fear much deeper rooted inside her. To be alone, truly, to lose Dean the way she lost John, made her face a dark terror without shape. She had to give it a name. Monsters.

“Mom-“ Dean starts again. He finally moves and sits down across from her. The table is cold beneath his fingertips. He can’t reach for her hand, he’s shaking as much as she is. “These monsters- I think-“ How to tell your mother that she might have lost her mind?  
“Do you need a little rest? Should I call work, take a few days off to stay with you?”

She shakes her head. Tears spill down her cheeks.

Dean’s phone beeps again.

 

_Adam and Nicci are gone._

 

 

**********

 

 

Mary won’t understand, she can’t, because her family is dead and John has been gone for years. She grieved for Kate Milligan because she was the wife Mary had never accomplished to be, but her ties to the others end here. Nicholas and Adam are not Mary’s concern. Cops, CIA, marines, anybody else would be better suited for this than Dean Winchester, the mechanic. But Adam and Nicholas are part of John’s life. They’re Dean’s brothers. They’re family.

Mary reads the message. Once. Twice. A third time. Her lips keep mouthing the words. Adam and Nicci. Not Dean and Sam. It could have been them, Dean realizes. Kate, Adam, Nicci – Mary, Dean, Sam.  
When they lost Sammy, it was too early to tell his gender. There had been no other choice than ‘Sam’ as their second child’s name. Mary had chosen her parents memory to live another generation and John had not objected. Dean was born a boy, but instead of choosing her fathers name, Mary had turned her mother’s into a fitting stand-in. The second time they had to choose ‘Sam’.  
For Dean, ‘Sam’ would always be ‘Sam’, no matter who he would have been. Samuel, Samantha, it made no difference to Dean. Sam was Sammy. His little brother.

There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that Sam would have been his little brother, his best friend, anything he could have wanted at age 4. And as he watches Mary mouth the names of John’s perfect family, there’s no doubt she has the same thought.

“Dean-“ Mary says, turns to him again and slides the phone across the table. “You shouldn’t go.”

But Mary can’t understand. Dean had thought there’d be no chance of redemption after Adam stopped messaging him. But this is it. He has to do something.

“They’re-“ family, Dean nearly says. He shakes his head.

Mary’s tears have dried, but her eyes still glimmer. Seconds tick by. Dean grabs his phone, re-reads the message again. They are boys, kids, both only 15 and not ready to be on their own. Dean remembers being 15, being angry and scared, lost in the wide world around him. He has never left Kansas, but even one state is enough to make you lose your mind and way, to stumble into dangers and never come back. By the time he had turned 15, John being a father had been but a memory. Adam and Nicci still remember their mother’s love.

Mary leaves the table. Dean can hear her going upstairs, turn left and enter her bedroom. Their house is old, full of memories. They added their own memories into the wood of the walls and doors. There’s still a scratch from Dean throwing his books at the kitchen door when he was 12. The dent Mary made in the frame of the living room window with a frying pan. Some are accidents, some were done on purpose. This house is theirs, they made it so.  
Just a minute later Mary comes back down the steps. Dean can hear her moving, her steps are heavier, slower than before.

She enters the kitchen, a book in her hands. She places it right in front of Dean. The cover is deep green, torn, shredded in places, dirty, damaged. There’s no name on it, no title.

“You’ll leave.” Mary whispers. It’s no accusation, no question, just an honest truth that has spread inside of Dean since he came here. He hadn’t been looking for advice. He had wanted to say goodbye.

He can’t bring himself to look at her. When – not if – he leaves today, he wants to remember her the way she used to be. Innocent and smiling. Not the woman who sat across him and brought the nightmares of his childhood back to life. Maybe, Dean wonders, she kept all the monsters she caught back then and locked them in a box, until they grew too big for the box to hold them.

“Take this with you.”  
Again, she sits down across from him.  
“This is my journal. Read it, remember it, live by it.”

 

 

**********

 

 

Never has he taken the Impala that far. All his life he has spent in Kansas. He has a job, the part of his family that matters, friends, acquaintances, occasional girlfriends. There was never a reason for him to leave. And the Impala is not the most comfortable car one could own and travel with.  
But it’s John’s legacy. When he left his family, he left his car behind. It was there, for free, when Dean turned 16, so he took it. His mother had never been fond of the old wagon. She was glad to get rid of it.

For Dean the Impala is just a car. He can’t remember his Dad driving it, being driven in it. It’s a car with a history Dean wasn’t part of. It’s spotless, like it were brand new. That’s why Dean takes it.

He quits his job. He calls his boss and tells him he’s not coming back. Not for awhile. Maybe never.  
Whatever he might have thought about the situation, his mom going crazy, his father panicked, it changed when he called John right after leaving his mother’s house. John had told him, what to do, where to go. “Believe her, Dean.” John had said. “What your mother says is true.”

They can’t both be mad, not at the same time.

Now Dean is on his way to meet Robert Singer. To get some information from him John isn’t able to get himself. The drive to South Dakota will take around 6 hours. It’s already dark. Better to rest now and drive the rest once the sun is up again. Whoever Robert Singer is, he surely won’t allow a stranger into his home in the middle of the night.  
It is half past 10 and he’s just outside of Craig. There’s a motel sign glowing above a line of trees on the right. He’ll stop here, rest, maybe turn around and drive back home tomorrow.  
It’s madness. All of it is madness. His mother, John, Adam and Nicci; something isn’t right, it makes no sense.

There are no monsters. Dean knows this for sure. Nightmares and terrors are all beliefs, nothing more than stories and dreams. They can’t hurt you, scratch your arms or legs, draw blood or tears from you. You grow out of believing them. Dean has long ago.  
And yet, he has a journal saying otherwise, a mother, who even cried due to her memories of dark creatures, a father, who has never even tried to be part of his life come back to him, because his sons are missing and he’s afraid the darkness and its monsters took them.  
Madness. And Dean’s running straight ahead into it.

The motel is cheap, the staff unimpressed. They’ve seen a lot more suspicious than a man in his twenties carrying a dirty sports bag. The man behind the counter gives him a smile with nearly no teeth.  
The rooms’ clean, at least. A bed, a chair and table, TV, bathroom. Nothing impressive but it will do. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. A soft, worn out mattress and a cold shower might make him drive home. He even quit his job to go on a journey with no defined end. What will he do after he meets Robert Singer? Will John ask him to meet somewhere? Will he email him the information? He doesn’t even know what John wants him to fetch.

Dean sighs and rubs his eyes. He’s tired. Every limb aches. His head feels too small.  
He sits down on the bed, rubs his eyes once more. Everything’s blurry, hazy and too dark. There’s only one lamp above the bed, casting dark shadows on the walls and floors. Tonight he will share this room with them. They have eyes, mouths, limbs with claws. Tonight they will be his monsters.

He is too tired to get out of his clothes and change. Tomorrow. He’ll do that tomorrow. With a sigh, Dean lets himself fall back unto the mattress. The bag falls down, things spill on the floor. The journal slides across the ground.  
The seconds tick by, Dean keeps staring at the green cover. Hesitantly, he reaches for it. He hasn’t looked at it closely yet. It contains his mother’s secrets, she told him as much.

Curiosity wins. He opens the first page.

_Dad is a hunter_

Tears on the paper

_I’m scared_

 

 

**********

 

 

 

**********

 

 

_For a second, all he does is stare at his phone. Something’s wrong. Something’s happened. He can fell his mouth moving, maybe he’s talking, maybe he’s not. The room is quiet. Dark. He smells sweat. Mold. Dust. His feet move but make no sound. He must be walking on a carpet._

_He can hear himself talking now. And he’s not alone. A voice keeps rising, but he doesn’t understand the words. They’re hateful, angry, he can tell by how they resonate inside of him. His chest tightens and his heart aches. He feels a gaze upon his back._

_The other presence in the room shakes, shimmers and shines. It’s holding back, Dean can tell. Something keeps it from lashing out, despite the anger and pain it radiates. Dean is the one dealing blows. His own words burn his tongue, they leave a bitter taste. Hurting the other is all he can do, he must protect his own feelings, mask his pain, his fear. The other can’t know. Can’t._

_Dean feels himself being pushed against a wall. Sam presses against him, holds him still. His eyes water as he looks at the other, looks at his brother and feels all the pain, all the sadness he has been holding back. “Sam”, he says and his chest feels tight once more. He has to protect himself, protect Sam._

_Sam trembles but his tears don’t fall._

_“Look… The three of us. That’s all we have. It’s all I have.” He feels his own eyes water. The blood red color of Sam’s shirt blurs, darkens. They both shake. Dean feels Sam’s hands clench around his shoulders._  
_“Sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding it together, man.” The fingers, a moment ago still buried in his shoulders, let go. For a few seconds he just stares at Sam as the other sags, as the tensions flows out of him. Warmth fill Dean’s chest. Sam-_

 

 

**********

 

 

He startles awake.  
Everything is gray and fuzzy for a few seconds as he sits up. His phone is still in his pocket, digging into his side. As he pulls it out, he remembers where he is. His chest is still warm, his heart aching.  
For a moment Dean wonders if he’s still dreaming.

 

 

**********

 

 

Whoever Bobby Singer is, he is not someone Dean would have wanted to meet without John’s request.  
His house looks like a junkyard, abandoned, forgotten, unsafe. Broken wires, metal spikes and other crap lies around. Car wrecks everywhere. The sign clearly says to stay away.  
He’s already being watched. There’s a dark presence behind the windows, following his every move. Dean walks across the yard and the eyes follow him. He can still feel them at the back of his head when he turns around.

“What do you want?” a scruffy voice asks him.

When he turns back towards the house again, there’s a shotgun aimed at him. Robert Singer – that must be him, old, unkempt and untrusting – stares at him. The front door is still half open behind him, as if he’s ready to dash back inside any moment. Everything about his posture is tense.

The shotgun makes Dean stop. This man is clearly dangerous.  
“You’re a hunter.” Start with the obvious. Make yourself unthreatening. Be here for a reason. Dean doesn’t shake, but he feels his legs tremble.

Robert Singer looks at him. Stares. “And you are?”

“A hunter’s son.”

Dean takes a few more steps towards the entrance, right towards the gun still aimed at him. He’s not going to die today. No. Robert Singer is a hunter. And hunters help others. His mother told him so.  
Robert Singer makes no move. He turns with Dean’s steps, always facing him, gun still held high and ready. Dean takes a few more steps. Robert Singer finally moves aside. “Drink this.” he tells Dean and stops him from entering the house. The bottle of water is cold. Salty. Robert Singer only lets him pass once he has finished all of it.

He leads Dean inside, through rooms filled with books, dust, trinkets. The walls are painted blood red and brown. It’s dark, eerie, strange. Symbols line the wall, floor and ceiling.  
He’s a hunter, Dean keeps repeating. He must be a good guy. But Dean’s steps are heavy. He has to force himself to march forward and follow this man inside his sanctum. The shotgun swings beside Robert Singer, still ready to be drawn.

“Sit down.” he gestures towards a worn couch in what might have been a living room once. Now it’s clustered with every- and anything one could imagine. Not only books, but baskets full of cords and cables, shoes lined up against the walls and tables, a torn patch of carpet here and there.  
Dean sits, grips the armrests tightly.

“Why are you here? What do you want? Need something? Advice?” Robert Singer stares at him. He’s standing across the room, leaning against a desk. The shotgun’s still in his hands, still staring at Dean with its black eye.

Dean has no idea. John never told him what to fetch or ask for.  
“John Winchester-“

Dean can’t even finish his sentence. The shotgun clicks. Aiming at him, Robert Singer takes a step forward. “Tell him he’s not getting it.” he tells Dean. His voice low, sharp. “I told him. He should stay away. And you… you, get out of my house if you’re only here to steal from me!”

Panic rises in Dean. He is going to die tonight. He can’t move, breathe. He stares right into his doom, waits for the gun to shoot, pierce his chest, shatter his flesh. A clock ticks. Robert Singer doesn’t move. “Go.” he says again. Less commanding, but still sharp.

Carefully, to not provoke the other man, Dean rises from the couch, turns around and walks back the way he came from. The front door should be right around this corner. He can hear Robert Singer’s steps right behind him. The gun is not pressed against his back, but he can feel the metal against his skin. It’s cold, sharp edged and rough.

“You’re not a hunter.” Robert Singers says as Dean steps over the threshold, then stops. Dean wants to turn around, but the metal of the gun clatters behind him and freezes him to his spot. The sun outside is bright and hot. “Only a hunter’s son.” Dean repeats his words from earlier. This is not his world. He’s a mechanic, an only child, raised by a single mother.

“Don’t look back, kid.” Robert Singers speaks slowly. This time it’s not a warning, but an advice. “You don’t want to be part of this. Go back home.”

If only Dean could. Slowly, but steadily his steps take him back to his car. Back towards a normal life he had chosen to abandon.

 

 

**********

 

 

_This is John Winchester. Leave a message._

 

5 times Dean has tried. The voicemail is all he gets. After the first 3 times he dialed again, just to hear John’s voice, to maybe find a hint of direction in his words.  
What should he do now? Where should he turn to? Go back home? Drive to Minnesota?  
Robert Singer didn’t give him any information, just a warning towards John to not bother him again. Whatever help John had hoped to gain here, Dean was unable to get it. He failed.

It’s still early. He could drive back home. Buy some flowers for his mother, give her back her journal and never talk of it again. She’d be glad.

Dean is no hunter. He shouldn’t have come here. But what’s the point in turning back now?  
It’s already hot inside the impala. The black paint absorbs all heat of the morning sun. Sighing, Dean leans back. His mother’s journal lies beside him. As he reaches for it, his head starts spinning. He’s dizzy, his stomach turns. His fingers touch the leather of the binding and he nearly faints.

It’s all too real. A shotgun had been pointed at him a mere 5 minutes ago. He could have died today. By coming here Dean is trying to be one of the good guys. He’s not sure Robert Singer is one as well. Nobody carries around a gun that big, that deadly, if they don’t plan to use it. Today it could have been Dean.  
Fear grips him tightly. He’s heart beats frantically and his breath stops. The car is too small, too hot, he’s not far enough from the house, Robert Singer could still be aiming at his head, the house is right there, he can see it, feel its presence, too close, the gun metal clicks in his ears-

Panic surges inside of Dean. He wrestles it down, barely manages, but he remains in his seat, doesn’t fire up the car and drive off. No. No. He has to remain calm. He lets his body sink forward and leans against the steering wheel. His breathing is labored. No. He won’t give up now. He can’t. He’ll drive to the next motel, rest and come back. He gave up everything he had back in Lawrence, he won’t return a failure.

It takes 15 minutes for Dean to calm down enough to sit back up, for his hands to stop shaking, so he can start the car and drive off.

 

**********

 

 

Dean ends up in the middle of his first hunt not by accident. Not really. Somehow he just knew where to leave the highway, where to stop inside the woods and take a little walk. The dream had come to him that afternoon, as he had lain down in the motel he had just booked a room in to rest. He had been so tired. And after he had woken up, he had just known where to be at what time. The sun has set, it’s dangerous in the dark. Dean has nothing but a flashlight with him. The thing, the monster, whatever Mary might call it in her journal, finds him. It knocks him down, flings him across a glade. Something in his shoulder seems to snap and he screams in pain.

Robert Singer saves him. He kills whatever was hiding here. Snaps its neck, tears the limbs from it and then burns the remains to ashes.

Through all of it, Dean doesn’t move from his spot. He leans against a tree, cradles his arm against his chest and watches. The fear is still there, lingering inside his chest. It makes it hard to breathe, hard to focus on the things in front of him, but it’s not as prominent as it could be. He can still think, analyze, wonder. The thing must have been human once. It can scream and shout like a man would. It has the same shape and height, moves the same way football players move on a field. It’s fast, strong, but Robert Singer knows how to take it down.

The smoke thickens over the burning body. Dean has been to many barbeques in his life; burning meat shouldn’t smell like this. Thick, metallic, rotten. His stomach turns and it takes all of his will to not throw up the sandwich he had for lunch.  
Afterwards, when the smell of burned flesh and clothes has faded, Robert Singer puts a can of beer into his hand and leans against a tree right beside him. He takes a sip from his own can before he turns back to Dean. “Last chance. Go home.”

Dean stares at the beer in his hands. If only he could.  
Monsters are real. Now, Dean knows this is true. Whatever he might have thought of earth and life in general is meaningless compared to the knowledge of the terrors, which every adult thinks are imaginary, really being out there. Waiting. Safe from pursuit, because all adults delude themselves with the same lie. Monster are not real; we are safe.

He shakes his head again. Robert Singer is still watching him, but remains silent. He waits for Dean to finish his beer, before he helps him back to his feet. When Dean lets the empty can fall to the ground, Robert Singer picks it up again.

“A hunter never leaves anything behind.” He says.

 

 

**********

 

 

There’s still mistrust in Robert’s eyes, when he looks at Dean. He keeps watching his every move, waiting for a wrong turn, a fake smile, darting looks. He brings Dean ointment and bandages, helps him reach the cuts on his back. Everything hurts. He’s surely black and blue from being thrown against a tree. Robert is twice his age and managed it without a scratch. The thing – Dean tries to remind himself that it wasn’t a human man, just couldn’t have been – is dead. What’s left are blood stains on Robert’s shirt.

_I don’t trust you_ , Robert’s eyes tell him, even across the room.

_You still let me inside_ , Dean answers, raises his head and nearly smiles.

Only a hunter’s son, but he’s managed what John couldn’t.  
Because sometimes, when Robert drops his guard for a fraction of a second, Dean can see the pain behind his eyes. He’s not a young man anymore, that’s obvious, but his eyes tell the tale of at least two lifetimes worth of suffering. Their blue color doesn’t shine like the sky on a summer’s day, they’re clouded and fuzzy, loaded with thunder, storm and rain.

The house tells Dean the same story. It’s cluttered, dirty, crammed with memories. The ones a hunter would have; weapons, books and dirty trinkets. But also those of a once happy life. There are frames with pictures spread across every room. The pictures inside have faded, they’re too dark to see. On the desks and tables are little figurines. Unicorns with broken wings, angels without hand and feet. Robert has lost someone dear to him and kept all traces of their life in a time loop. The little objects crack and shatter over time, but they remain where they were once put.

Dean won’t be able to use his arm for a few days. He can’t drive.  
He’s helpless, useless, bound to stay wherever Robert dumps him. If all else fails, he could call his mother, let her know where she is, make her come and pick him up. What then? He’d have to call John and tell him he failed. Maybe that’s already what he suspected. John hasn’t called since they’ve spoken before Dean drove here. There has been no call, no message, no sign of life. It disturbs Dean more than the opposite could. This task had been so important for John, enough for him to call Dean and ask for help. Why doesn’t he pester him for updates?

“If you’re tired,” Robert tries to mention casually, but Dean can tell he’s tense. “there’s a spare bedroom upstairs.”

Dean feels like going crazy himself. He takes the offer.

 

 

**********

 

 

_No way._  
_He’s not going to leave. He won’t. He can’t._  
_Today he is going to die. Not by the hands of a monster, no, he won’t let Sam become one. The virus is going to kill his brother, slowly, but Dean will save him. He has enough bullets for both of them. They can go quietly. He won’t let Sammy die in pain._

_The door is locked. The gun’s presence is heavy in the room. He’ll do it. He’ll kill him. Back of the skull, most painless way to go. Sammy won’t feel anything. He won’t suffer._  
_But Sam is angry, furious and cold. There’s no warmth in the room, no understanding, no love. These will be their last moments together. Dean wants to go over to Sam, hug him, feel him, breathe him in. His hands shake, his legs tremble, his body grows icy as the seconds tick by. He can’t wait too long._

_“Gimme my gun and leave.”_

_No, he won’t let him do it. He promised to always take care of Sam. His Dad made him swear on it. This is Dean’s responsibility. He’ll leave nothing behind, there’ll be no legacy. But Sam is more important._

_“For the last time Sam… no.” his voice doesn’t tremble as he talks. He feels the initial waves of panic subside. It’ll be okay. He’ll never forgive himself, because he couldn’t save his brother. But. This will be enough. He’ll let Sam go first, watch him die. He’ll suffer for both of them, for his failure._

_Sam’s anger rises. Dean feels heat and fire come off him. He tries to turn his back on him but is drawn back to the surrender in his voice._

_“Dean, I’m sick. It’s over for me. It doesn’t have to be for you.”_

_It is over. For both of them. Just the thought of going on without Sam grips Dean tight with despair. His heart hammers inside his chest. No._  
_Panic wraps around him, tightly. No. Stay calm. Breathe. Relax. Laugh, if you have to._

_“No, you can keep going.” Sam says. Dean knows his brother would do the same for him. Suffer until his death, smiling, thinking he had made the right choice._

_“Who says that I want to.”_

_Sam makes this life bearable. Dean looks ahead, watches his brother’s tears fall, his life slip away second by second. Sam eases the loneliness, gives him purpose. He’d have nothing without Sam. Slowly, while his hands still tremble and he has to lean back against the table to not lose his balance, Dean reaches for his gun. This will be the end of it. He’ll do it. He’ll make it right._

 

 

**********

 

 

Three nights Dean has stayed with Robert – _Bobby_ , the other insists – Singer. His dreams exhaust him. He can’t rest without seeing, feeling things he can’t explain. There’s always pain, suffering, tears. And he and Sam right in the middle of it.  
Sorrow is all Dean has left now, when he remembers dream-Sam’s voice, the warmth of his body right beside him, his breath, heartbeat. Alive. But every morning Dean’s dreams dissolve and all he is left with are memories, regrets and tears. He wakes up, crying, his chest tight from pain and his body still trembling in fear. The images inside his dreams are blurred, out of focus. He can’t make out Sam’s face, just his shape and small details without correlation. He can only feel him. Feel warmth, affection, love. That’s how Dean can tell it’s him. And every morning Sam dies again, slain by the brutal force of reality. All Dean can keep from his dreams is the loss of a loved one.

Dean is alone most of the time. Bobby is often gone to help others. The phones he has set up keep ringing. A hunter, Dean realizes, must be lonely. There are so many people out there who need help. The phones keep ringing, cries for help of those who can’t defend themselves or other hunters who have reached their limit. But Bobby can’t save them all. He can’t stay after a monster is slain, can’t connect with those who owe him his life, because there are others out there waiting for their hero. Bobby can’t become attached or others will die.

Dean spends his days wishing he could help. Every time a phone rings and Bobby isn’t there to pick it up, Dean imagines a family on the other side losing a loved one in tragedy. Every missed call means a corpse rotting away. Dean wishes he could be angry. He can’t. Bobby works from dawn till dusk, dusk till dawn. Each day. Every day. He leaves wearing fresh clothes and comes home with torn vests, shredded jeans, blood stains. He doesn’t lock Dean up. He stocks enough food and even starts cleaning the living room.

When Dean tries to ask him why he’s doing all of this, Bobby ignores him, says nothing.  
He might be for Bobby what dream-Sam is for his dream-self.

 

 

**********

 

 

Dean ends up in the middle of his second hunt by accident. A ghost follows Bobby back to his house. Books get torn apart and windows crack. When everything is over, Dean needs bandages for his knee.  
That day Bobby starts talking to him. He explains how to deal with ghosts, what you can do to keep yourself safe and how to get rid of them before they get to you. Salt, fire - most essential for dealing with them.

Be careful, Bobby tells him a few times, they’re angry. Vicious. They won’t care what they shatter or who they hurt.

His mother’s journal tells him the same. _They’re dangerous_ , every page about ghosts starts, _because their life was taken from them. They seek revenge. And over time, they forget who took their life and turn on the world instead._

_Ghosts frighten me the most._

Dean can relate. They’re humans, stabbed, strangled, mutilated; all they have left is their rage and their wish for vengeance. It isn’t their fault, that they’re stuck here, unable to move on. But they have to put an end to them. Or they will hurt whoever encounters them.

_Salt and burn their bones_ , Dean learns from his mother’s journal, _make sure you get all of it, hair, blood, skin, leave nothing behind. Every object they might attach themselves to – burn it as well._

Through the words written by his mother when she was barely 14 and what Bobby shows him through actions, Dean learns how to hunt. Every word, every tactic, he all memorizes it with ease. Pack salt, lighter, have a bottle of holy water with you at any time, don’t leave witnesses behind without explaining to them what they saw, keep spare bullets in your pockets, for emergencies you need to have a pocketknife close to your body, …

After two more days, Dean’s shoulder and arm are healed enough to use again.  
After another two, he holds his first shotgun and aims for cans spread across Bobby’s backyard.

Dean can’t explain it, maybe Bobby can’t either, but something between them has changed. Bobby doesn’t look at him with mistrust anymore and Dean feels safer with the older man around. They don’t talk, not often, and if they do, it’s about monsters, hunts and weapons. But the air between them has changed. Dean has dreamed of Bobby as well.

Bobby teaches Dean how to use a gun and Dean helps Bobby with the phones. He writes names and addresses down, forwards them to Bobby and keeps the people on the lines calm until help arrives. When other hunters call, they show disbelief.

_Who? Dean? Never heard of him. Who are you? Where’s Bobby? What’s going on?_

They don’t trust him, but they trust Bobby. And after the initial surprise, they stop questioning what Dean tells them to do.  
He’s a natural. Bobby tells him so one evening when he shows Dean how to take apart a gun and clean it properly. Bobby shows him once, Dean mimics him instantly. He takes longer than Bobby, of course, but he manages without needing a second demonstration. It scares Dean.

He’s a mechanic, he knows how to take apart engines, clean them and put them back together. No problem. But this is a gun. Something he has never held in his hands. Never had to. Never wanted to. It feels right in a way that disturbs him. It makes him feel powerful, it feels natural. And it shouldn’t. Dean stares at the gun and doesn’t feel scared. He could die. Bobby’s guns are always loaded. Always. He has to take out the bullets first when he cleans them and put them back in once he’s finished.

His aim gets better day by day. The first day he missed all cans. Now, 5 days later, he misses only 2 in 10.

_Working a case on your own will get you killed, eventually. It might take months, even years. But one day you’ll mess up. And die._

If his mother knew that much at 14, Dean is sure Bobby knows it too. He’s been here two weeks. There has been nobody else. Bobby has no partner. Instead he takes Dean with him on their first hunt together. The case is two states over, in Wisconsin. They drive for hours in Bobby’s truck.

“How many Hunters are there?” Dean asks somewhere in Minnesota.  
“Roughly 150”  
“…in Wisconsin?” Dean blinks. He didn’t think there’d be that many.  
Bobby doesn’t look at him. “In all states combined.”

Everybody knows everybody. Every state has 2-3 hunters living there. That’s why Bobby drives to Wisconsin. You find a hunt, you take it on. You make it your business, no matter where it is. Hunters are rare. There are too many monsters to fight. And nobody wants to train new hunters, knowing they’ll find an early grave. No father wants to teach his son or daughter how to use a gun, how to defile a grave and burn human bones, tell a family that their kid was killed by a dangerous creature usually only found in horror tales. Hunters are born by coincidences. You run into a creature, you survive, you learn how to kill them.

Dean has finished his mother’s journal. Every night he read a few pages, got closer to the end, dreading what would happen there. He knows Mary’s parents were murdered. He never asked how, by whom, but the journal in his hands can only lead to one explanation. Mary survived terrors she can still barely talk about. She raised Dean and kept him away from the dark side of existence, hoping that history wouldn’t repeat itself. That her son didn’t have to face the despair of losing his parents to an unconquerable force. No matter what creature exactly dealt the deadly blow, they all become your enemies once you lose someone due to them. Vampires, ghosts, Wendigos, they all share the same similarity. They aren’t human. They’re dangerous. So they must be wiped out.

Shape shifters, black dogs, Shtrigas, all these names hold meaning now. Dean knows how to kill them, what precautions one must take and how to distinguish their traces from each other. He no longer is merely a hunter’s son.

Mary has no idea, but she might suspect something. She had kept calling him the first weeks and Dean had refused to answer any of her calls. He had waited until late at night before calling her back. He has left many messages on her voicemail, always starting with I am fine, don’t worry. But she is his mother, she can’t not worry.  
The calls became less frequent but they haven’t stopped yet. She usually calls him once every two days, maybe to talk him into coming back. She never leaves a message. Sometimes Dean can hear her breathing, when he checks his voicemail, but she never says anything. Once Dean thinks he can hear her crying.

John remains silent. No calls, no messages, nothing. Dean tries to contact him a few times and never gets past This is John Winchester. Leave a message.  
Maybe Adam and Nicci are back by now. They might have run off to clear their minds, stay low for a few days, a week, and try to get their life under control once more. Dean never had a father figure in his life, but it must be tough, to have one. Someone who you want to make proud of you, who you think will judge your every move. And probably compare you to your brother. Even more if that brother is your twin. Same age, same wisdom. A younger can never compare to the older, as much as the older can never get back to the place the younger is at. But twins compete in everything.

For now, Dean can’t do more than learn to be stronger, smarter, faster than the things he plans to kill. He can’t go and search for John, he has no idea where to look for him. He has no address, no other contact than his phone number. He won’t forget, no, but right now he has other things to focus on.

Like the hunts with Bobby.  
The first goes well, so there’s a second. And after the fifth time, after Dean has successfully killed a Wendigo nearly by himself, Bobby gifts Dean his first gun. His own. The feeling of holding the cold metal between his fingers is worth the scars he’ll keep from his ventures.

A ghost flung a knife at him and grazed his left arm.  
A black dog got his right calf.  
A Wendigo shredded his shirt and left 3 narrow scars on his right shoulder blade.

“You’re a natural.” Bobby tells him after every successful trip.  
They’re back at Bobby’s house. The blood on their shirts has dried and Dean’s sitting on the couch, pouring alcohol on his crusted knuckles. It stings, he hisses, Bobby smiles. Every wound, every scar makes Bobby prouder. He tells Dean how well he does, not without mentioning the things he still needs to improve on. The first time he calls Dean Idjit for forgetting to refill his holy water supply, Bobby stops and loses his concentration. It’s not Dean he’s talking to, not really.

When Dean realizes that he is a surrogate for someone Bobby has lost, it makes things awkward between them. Until Bobby tells him his story. About a wife, a son he thought he had, and the tragedy that ripped them from him. Did it myself, he tells Dean. Before they got him. Before anyone else was harmed.

He has been a hunter ever since. The creature he survived is long dead, but Bobby’s vengeance is not fulfilled. Too many other creatures are still doing the same thing, day for day. They rip families apart, destroy lives.

“So, I became a hunter.”

And that’s all there is to say.  
Dean wonders what story he might tell someday. Why did he become a hunter?

 

 

**********

 

 

Being a hunter is devastating. Every sacrifice is doubled. Loneliness, pain, suffering, despair. Dean feels all of it, when he looks into tear filled eyes, when he buries the remains of a mutilated body or burns dark skinned creatures.  
He left his old life for this. For pain and blood. Every creature he takes on with Bobby manages to leave their mark on him. Some through scars, others through memories that haunt him. The nightmares won’t stop. Now, every dark corner has eyes, every narrow alley has footsteps echoing from inside. Dean is terrified. But he stays.

 

 

**********

 

 

_Water. Cold. Rain. The wind is icy, the earth is slick. It keeps raining, tiny little drops. The water forms mist around the scenery. Everything is dark. He’s not alone, Bobby is with him. But still he’s restless, scared, worried. Where is he? Where am I? Where do I need to look? What can I do? How can I find him?_

_Questions upon questions clog his mind. He’s frantic, panicked. Sam! Sam! Sammy! Sam!_  
_His throat is dry, raw, but he keeps screaming. Gotta find Sam, gotta find him now!_

_The road opens up before them. Abandoned buildings lead the way._  
_There he is! Walking, limping, careful not to slip on the ground. Relief floods Dean, warmth, ease, love, all clash together. He’s here. He’s alive._  
_Their eyes meet. Even in the mist around them Sammy’s shine like tiny bonfires in the night. It’s over. No questions left, no fears, no gruesome images of finding his little brother’s corpse inside the woods, it’s all over now. Dean allows himself to smile._

_A few more steps and he’ll be close enough to touch._  
_When the other black figure moves out of the shadows, Dean’s world stops. A heartbeat, it takes no more, and his life crumbles. Sam sways, stumbles, falls. Bobby dashes past him, the figure disappears in the darkness. Dean runs. Runs. As fast as he can._

_The both crash to the ground. Together. Dean keeps Sam upright, grips his shirt so tightly the fabric beneath his fingers tears. A few heartbeats, it hasn’t been longer, but already Sam’s body grows cold. Dean feels the life drain out of him, feels the icy wind soak through Sam’s clothes. His face is pale. His eyes unfocused._

_“Sam!” Dean’s arms shake; Sam falls forward, right against his chest._

_“Hey, look at me.”_

_Don’t look away, I’m here, I’m here._

_“It’s not even that bad.”_

_You’ll walk away from this; we will walk away from this._

_“I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna take you care of you. I’ve got you.”_

_I won’t let you get hurt again, never again, just look at me, say something._

_“That’s my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?”_

_Sam, Sam, look at me, Sam, hey, don’t close your eyes, I’m here, I came for you, I’m here, I’m going to take you home, I’ll make sure you get back on your feet, we’ll take a break, we’ll run, Sam, Sammy, please, don’t close your eyes, don’t leave me here, no, don’t go, no, no, don’t go, I can’t follow you, stay with me, Sammy, please, god, no, no, no, no please-_

_Freezing skin, shaky breath, a last erratic heartbeat. The End._

_“SAM!”_

 

 

**********

 

 

Dean wakes, screams, tears cloud his eyes. He has scratched his arms bloody.  
He tastes ashes, blood. A voice keeps ringing in his ears. More than a dream, a faint memory.

_One year. And one year only_

 

**********

 

 

The deeper Dean falls into hunting, the more intensive his dreams get. When he wakes, he tastes dirt and ashes, he smells the scenery around him, his skin is ice cold from wind, even though he’s still inside.  
Sam becomes clearer. Not his image, but the way he talks, smells, feels. He’s taller than Dean, he’s huge, intimidating. Smart. Witty. He talks faster than Dean can follow at times. He’s cold, always cold to the touch. And sad. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t laugh. He’s hiding secrets.

The dreams about the monsters Dean hunts at day leave him scared and on edge.  
Dreams of Sam shake him, terrify him to his core. His death keeps replaying before Dean’s eyes. The feeling of sorrow won’t subside.

 

 

**********

 

 

Hunting keeps his mind off things. Bobby doesn’t know and Dean won’t tell how much the dreams torment him. So they keep hunting. A ghost here, a vampire there.  
For the first time, Bobby takes Dean to the roadhouse. He meets Rufus. Ellen. Ash. Jo. Martin. Steve. Hunters from every state.

They’re curious, distrusting. Everyone eyes them as they enter. They know Bobby, of course, everyone knows Bobby. Ellen greets him warmly and offers Dean a beer. On the house. Bobby’s friends must be hers as well. Bobby introduces everyone to Dean. When they ask Bobby who this new kid is, why they are here together, he doesn’t answer. Dean doesn’t know either. Is he a partner? Friend?

“What’s your name?” a black haired man, maybe around his forties, asks Dean with suspicion in his eyes.

“Dean.” Bobby has already told them as much.

The hunter rolls his eyes. “Family name. The family’s what’s important. Your family means trouble, you’re trouble as well. So?”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “Winchester.”  
Even though he’s more Campbell now than he’s ever been, carrying his mother’s legacy.

The name wanders through the roadhouse, gets whispered in dark corners until every hunter has heard it. It means nothing here. The black haired guy nods at Dean, then leaves him be. Bobby is still talking to Ellen.  
Two hunters have their eyes fixed on Dean; he can see them over there in their corner. 5 minutes, 10 minutes pass. Then they come over. They keep watching him.

“You’re a Winchester.” The taller one says, sits down beside Dean at the counter. “Guess it must be true. You look kinda similar.”

Dean’s heart stops for a second. “You’ve met John?”

They shake their heads. The other sits down on Dean’s other side. He has to move his head around to keep his eyes on both. The one who spoke to him first, leans closer. His eyes are dark brown, nearly black. His teeth are crooked.

“You have two brothers, Dean?”

Jack and Gilligan – the two hunter’s names – have run into Adam and Nicci on a hunt two weeks back. A nest of Vampires. Wyoming. Dean figures they could be anywhere by now. Where are they now? Why are they hunting?  
He has questions, but neither Jack nor Gilligan can give him the answers he desires. Jack tells him Adam and Nicci did well on the hunt. They were a great team, despite their young age. Gilligan doesn’t praise them. He tells Dean to find them, bring them back home. Kids shouldn’t hunt. Their father shouldn’t have let that happen. And he’s right. Dean thinks the same. How could John let them hunt? They’re 15, still just kids!

But… what if John couldn’t hold them back? Dean remembers what Bobby told him. You encounter a creature, you survive, you learn how to kill them.  
What if… John is dead… and his brothers are now seeking vengeance?

 

 

**********

 

 

_“Dean, I love you. Never think I hid something from you because I thought I couldn’t trust you with my secret. That was never the case. I know this is different from hiding Christmas presents until Christmas morning, so you wouldn’t spoil yourself. My life- this life. What you do. What you experience. I never wanted- this wasn’t meant for you. I was 12, when my parents told me the truth. Before. Before that, I had wondered. Why was my dad away so much? Why did he come home hurt? I had questions. They never gave me answers. Dean, I love you. I trust you. I let you go, because I trust you to come back. Don’t stay. Walk away from this life. You’ll have a long life. Be happy. Hunting takes away your joy. Your freedom. And returns pain. Suffering. You can’t trust anyone. You can’t tell. You must hide. Dean. Dean. I love you. I survived this terror once. Don’t make me face it again.”_

 

 

*********

 

 

He keeps his mother’s voicemail, listens to it every day for two weeks. He can’t bring himself to call back. She is wrong. This isn’t the life he imagined. But. Something keeps him here. With Bobby. With Ellen. Ash. Jo. The roadhouse and all the hunters that frequent it. A few weeks ago they had eyed him with suspicion. Now they welcome him.

_Stay._ A voice whispers. _Stay. This is who you’re meant to be._

The faint whisper inside his mind grows a little louder each day. Dean has accepted the implication.  
All his life he had tried to find a place in this world, somewhere he belonged to. He hadn’t been unsatisfied in Lawrence, but he hadn’t been happy either. There had been no direction, no strive. Dean still wonders at times why he became a mechanic. Cars used to be just tools for him, to get quickly from point A to point B. The only great thing about the job is the solitude. You don’t need anybody else. Customers come in and leave their cars - Dean finds the problem and fixes it. He knows all he must to fix every problem a car could have. He keeps to himself, does his job and when it’s time to go home, he says goodbye to all his colleagues, without even knowing their names.

Cars aren’t special. For Dean they used to be the same as toasters, refrigerators, dishwashers; they have their purpose and that’s it.

The Impala used to be the same for Dean.  
But it is night, the wind’s howling, Bobby’s at the nearest crossroad, trying to lure out a dark creature from the woods. Dean’s alone in the car. It’s cold. The Impala keeps him safe from rain and storm. His fingers glide along the steering wheel, the upholstery. No creature can reach him here without him noticing. He’s safe, hidden. Everything will be alright. He can sit here, wait for Bobby to give him the sign, aim the shotgun at the creature from the window, kill it without being close to it. He’s safe.

The car is his partner. She’s fast, gracious, charming in her own way. A black beauty to the core. She’s his. She takes care of him, he takes care of her.  
He must have become a mechanic just for her.

 

 

**********

 

 

In the following months Dean and Bobby become a team. They work well together, communicate without words. One nods, the other fires, the creature dies. One look tells the other all he needs to know. The roadhouse whispers their praise in every dark corner. Dean and Bobby; Bobby and Dean. When they go on a hunt, they win.

They are at the roadhouse when the rumors reach them.  
Adam and Nicci are still hunting, Dean knows that much. Every few weeks he runs into a hunter that has seen them, maybe even fought with them at some point. They are still kids, no hunter would take orders from them. But they’re great. No victim has ever died on their watch. Dean doesn’t have such a record.

Every hunter tells them the same about Adam, about Nicci, about the things they do at night, who they help and what creatures they hunt. They are naturals.  
Better than Dean could ever hope to be. The tales of their glorious adventures are full of praise and awe. At least when he hears them from survivors who his brothers helped. The hunters are scared. Kids their age shouldn’t be that good. It’s strange. Weird. Unnatural. Some whisper of help, of deals made with dangerous creatures. The Winchester boy is a natural hunter; swift, thorough, deadly, they can all agree on that. But The Twins are gifted in a different way.

Bobby listens to the same stories. Of two boys in shining armor, hiding dark powers with their innocent looking smiles. He’s suspicious, Dean can tell.

Something’s happening. Familiar faces vanish from the Roadhouse. Hunters die. It has happened before, of course it has, but they used to die on hunts, heroic, while saving innocents from a cruel fate. These days, they die at home. Alone. Taken by surprise.

_Demons._

The first time Bobby told Dean about them, he had whispered. Demons. Dark creatures. The most powerful enemies of humankind. They lie, betray, tempt. Their powers are diverse, their motives consistent. They seek to destroy.  
And while there was a time when they kept to themselves and hunters tried to stay out of their way if possible, the balance has seemingly changed. They seek hunters all over the states, find their homes and break their necks, leaving not a single evidence. At least not for the police. Dean is afraid of them, because Bobby is as well.

_Pray you never run into one of them,_ Bobby tells him. His mother’s diary tells him the same. _If you encounter a demon: run._

And while other hunters die, a new one every other week, The Twins shine brighter with every new heroic deed.

Never would they make a deal with demonic creatures, Dean is sure of that. He thinks he knows his father well enough to doubt he’d raise them to darkness, but he can’t shake off his fear. Dark creatures might have killed their mother. Might have killed John, who hasn’t contacted Dean for months. Experiences can change you. It might have happened to Adam and Nicci. Dean won’t allow them to go down that road.  
He has no way of contacting them, no way to find their next designation. He sets up a network of his own; Billy, Joel, Carmen, Rupert, and so many more. He sets them on a mission. Find my brothers. If you do, call me.  
They’re willing to help, eager to send the boys back where they came from and get rid of their own suspicion and fear. If they are linked to the murders, in any way, getting rid of them means getting rid of the blades hanging above their own heads.

Bobby helps, in his own way. Calls him Idjit, but lets him be. Even unplugs some phones for him to use if he so wishes. They don’t talk about it, so they can’t disagree.

 

 

**********

 

 

**********

 

 

For months Dean follows leads, hints, memoranda from a dozen sources. He can’t catch them. They leave the city, when he enters the state. They’ve already finished a hunt when he finds a trail.  
Monsters gather on their way. Dean can make out their route on a map, based on the sightings of demons on their trail. Something’s brewing beneath the surface, bubbling, hot and dangerous. For months, Dean is nothing but a tracker on a mission. His network doesn’t fail him, but it can’t help him either. Every hint he gets from Rupert, Jody, Allan, comes too late. Once he reaches town, his brothers are already gone.

John is silent. No message, no sign of life. Nobody has heard of him. Likely, nobody will again. He’s dead, Dean keeps thinking late at night, when he stares at his phones, waiting for them to ring, and peels a crusted, bloody, gooey mess from his shoes.  
Dead. Gone. Something has happened, Dean is sure of it. Something made Adam and Nicci flew from their home and into this life. Not the same way Dean’s life pushed him into this new existence; something different, more profound and significant. That’s why they are better hunters. They are fast, efficient, have nothing to lose.

On his search Dean has spoken to a few survivors his brothers had left behind in different towns. They all told him the same thing. They were different. Unreal.

For months it goes on like this. Until a routine salt and burn brings all three of them together. It’s late at night, out in the woods, on a cemetery long forgotten by the residents of the nearby town. A ghost had been haunting an old hotel; he had been robbed and killed in the bathroom of his room.  
When Dean reaches the place, Adam and Nicci are standing across each other, the grave between them burns. They both watch Dean as he draws closer. Light flickers in their eyes. They are identical; if not for the clothes they are wearing, Dean wouldn’t be able to distinguish them.

“Hello Dean.”

They sound the same. Their eyes keep watching him, observing his every step. The grave burns from the inside, thick black smoke dissolves in the mist around them. Just a routine job, but both twins look rough. Their faces are smeared with blood. Their clothes are dirty, shredded, torn.

“Adam. Nicholas.” Dean addresses them both. He can’t tell who of them is who. He has never met either of them. He hasn’t heard their voices before like this, only Adam’s through a few voicemails. He was unable to compare them. He had a picture, just the one, showing the happy family he himself had been denied, but both twins had been way younger.  
All three of them have their weapons drawn while they circle around the grave. Dean has his gun, one twin holds a silver knife with curved blade, the other carries a gun as well. Dean can see so much of John reflected in both of them. Their shirts, jeans, jackets, could easily be his. One of them tilts his head the same way Dean remembers John did when he came to them decades ago and asked Mary’s permission to love once more. They carry the name Winchester, even though their mother had never married John and legally their name has remained Milligan throughout these years. But Dean understands. John is dead. He’s watching his legacy.

Dean could have taken the name Campell. But he chose the same name his brothers have. Winchester is their legacy, each of them carries their own truth with him, their own part of John Winchester. Dean was never ready to cut ties completely and Adam and Nicci are seeking revenge. They’re still young, kids in most peoples eyes, but they don’t flinch despite Dean’s gun being pointed at them.  
They don’t fear him. They know they don’t have to.

“Dean,” one of them says again. Maybe Adam. Maybe Nicholas. “Why are you looking for us?”

Dean stops between both of them. The heat of the flames warms his hands and face. “We’re on the same hunt.” Not a lie; not the truth.

The twins lower their weapons, just slightly.  
“You can keep following us, we don’t mind. But we won’t let you catch up again.” the same twin says. “Keep out of it, Dean.” They both say at the same time. Their voices don’t waver, don’t tremble. Their words are sharp, icy. No teenager should sound like that, no teenager should have to. These are not the words of two young boys, but of men ready to face whatever consequences they must. They have lowered their weapons, but they still watch him closely. They don’t tremble or flinch, not the slightest bit.

Whoever of them is Adam, Dean doesn’t recognize the boy who wrote him messages in either of them. The one who tried to call him and find an anchor in him, is now dealing with it on his own. It’s been a year and a half and whatever has forced these boys to grow up faster than they should have needed to, has stripped away all innocence they used to have. Dean isn’t looking at two teenagers, he’s looking at two grown men, their weapons drawn for a fight, their mind and body ready for whatever they might have to face.

“Adam,” Dean addresses both of them; he keeps his gaze on one of them and when the twin turns and glances at the other, Dean knows. So, that’s Nicci.  
Dean turns to Adam. Their eyes meet across the flames. “I’m sorry I didn’t stand by your side, when you-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Not Adam, but Nicholas interrupts him. “We are stronger on our own.” He takes a few steps towards Dean. He doesn’t lower his gun further; he keeps it high enough to aim at Dean if he has to. “Call yourself Winchester, if it makes you feel better. You’re not part of our family.”

But they are part of his. Even if it’s just misplaced obligation that made Dean step into this lifestyle and look for them, it’s there. And it won’t go away again.

“We are brothers.” That should count for something, but even as Dean draws closer to them, the faith in his own words crumbles. They are brothers by blood, but he knows nothing about them. They look identical, but he knows they must have different interests and talents. Adam’s not Nicci; Nicci’s not Adam. But if tomorrow they wore different clothes, Dean wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

Nicholas laughs. Adam just stares at him.

“This is our hunt.” Nicholas turns towards the grave. The flames’ shadows dance along his face, coloring the crusted blood on his cheeks black. “This is our life. You were looking for us, you want to convince us to stop. We’ve met some of the other hunters. You call them friends? They so easily spilled your secrets to us.”

Dean doesn’t dare to come closer. Nicholas turns his back to him completely, while Adam steps up to his brother’s side. He remains face to face with Dean, guarding his brother’s back silently. He seems reluctant, hesitant. Not in guarding his brother, but standing here with Dean so close and the bones of a man still burning behind him. His blood stained fingers grip his knife tighter.  
“Dean,” Nicholas tilts his head. “go home. You still have a mother to return home to. Why choose to abandon her?” He turns around.  
His hand clasps his brother’s shoulder. He mouths words close to Adam’s ear, too low for Dean to hear. Then they both turn around and walk into the night.

Dean doesn’t try to stop them.

 

 

**********

 

_The glass breaks._  
_Something in his spine snaps._  
_His left wrist burns with pain._  
_This is how it ends. This is what has become of them._  
_The room spins around him, the glass cuts his back and arms._  
_Sam steps forward, through glass and broken wood and the remains of their trust. It’s broken. He’s broken._  
_For a moment he can’t breathe. Sam’s in front of him, unfocused, blurry._

_He can feel the hands on his neck, squeezing, squashing his windpipe. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe!_

_This isn’t Sam, this can’t be his brother, these can’t be his hands, his breath, his stare, it’s all too cold, too spaced out, unfamiliar, scary, his brother, his own brother’s going to kill him, he’s going to kill him-_

_Suddenly the pressure’s gone. His own rasps make him dizzy. They’re both groaning, gasping, panting._

_“You don’t know me. And you never will.”_

_Sam’s moving away, towards the door. He climbs over glass and wood, steps into Dean’s blood on the carpet. He turns back, but it’s not Sam anymore. A soulless terror stares back at Dean. Its eyes are sharp, cold._

_“Y-ou walk out that door, don’t you e--ver come ba-ck-“_

_Blood runs down Dean’s temple. It’s hot, it stings. His eyes water. Sammy. No._  
_Sammy._  
_Where are you going, what has happened to you, where is my brother, bring him back, I want him back, I need him back-_

_The creature tilts its head._  
_And walks away._

 

**********

 

 

Dean still checks on them. Other hunters call him from time to time, telling him The Twins finished a hunt in Nebraska, Wisconsin or Dakota.  
Demons still follow them. Hunters still die. The intervals get longer, but the circumstances remain the same. The Twins save every victim they come across, but hunters they meet find an early grave not soon after. These days the roadhouse is a dangerous place for Dean to be. Everybody knows they’re brothers by now. They even carry the same name.

You’re family means trouble, you’re trouble as well.

They are scared. Even Bobby is. Never have there been as many demonic possessions as in the aftermaths of the hunts The Twins were involved in. Demons used to be rare. Every other year a hunter would run into one; few survived to tell the tale, but the ones who did made sure that nobody went after these creatures. Every hunter knows the exorcisms by heart, but few have had the chance to test their effect. Bobby remains the only one Dean knows who survived a Demon’s attack meant to kill, while others survived out of pure luck. He never tells him how, only that he did.  
Dean wears charms, even gets a tattoo to keep them from possessing him. Nobody can guarantee him it’ll work, but the tattoo makes him feel safer.

Accidents happen frequently now. The route The Twins seem to travel is a dangerous one. Air planes crash, car accidents rise, a virus nearly wipes out a whole town. Casualties everywhere, of a war nobody wants to acknowledge yet.

_They’re monsters._

Dean has heard the words whispered behind his back. When he visits Ellen or Ash, needs a place to sleep on a hunt or a few bullets to tie him over until the next money comes in, he goes to the roadhouse. Ellen welcomes him, but the others ignore his existence.  
Before, Dean had thought this could be a second home to him, to meet friends and partners; to belong. But he doesn’t, he can’t. His name gets whispered in every dark corner of the place, every new hunter eyes him suspiciously.

_Winchester._

They don’t fear him, they fear his name.  
When he first came here, Winchester was a name nobody cared about. By now it’s a name no hunter can be ignorant of. He’s famous, for all the wrong reasons.  
New hunters appear nearly every day. They’re kids. And often enough still traumatized from their experiences. More demons means more victims left behind; more future hunters who survived. It’s a vicious cycle nobody seems to be able to stop. Not even The Twins, despite how much they try.

Oh, they try. Some hunters have given them names. Demon slayers, Hell riders; a mystical name to accompany their unnatural success. They’ve banished more demons than any other hunter Bobby has heard of. Some call their actions omens.  
Something’s coming. Something dark. Not only hunters fear demons, other creatures do as well. The vampires were the first who went into hiding. Few of them are found nowadays. Sightings became scarce. It’s been weeks since Dean’s been on a real hunt. He banished a few ghosts, but that’s all.

But The Twins, they find creatures to kill. Or the creatures find them.  
Their trail is still covered in blood. Some their own, but most of it comes from the lives they took, the men and women they killed, who were unlucky enough to be possessed by demons and drawn into a fight they had no chance to survive either way.

Bobby wants to stay out of it. “Omens,” he says , “mean something big is coming. The weather’s acting strange, all bastard creatures went into hiding – they know something is coming. It is, Dean.” Bobby insists. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Dean has no idea how to fight demons or the devil himself, if he were to come. He’ll die. One day, he’ll die. More likely sooner than later. He is still scared, but he also has something to do before he can lie down peacefully.

Adam. Nicholas.

They are still out there. Dean hasn’t given up on them yet. Bobby has.  
“Stay out of it. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Maybe he will. But he won’t find out unless he tries.

 

 

**********

 

 

The roadhouse isn’t hostile. The hunters let him stay, they just don’t talk to him much. Apart from the hunters he could persuade to help him track the Twins, Dean’s on his own here. Ash, Ellen, Jo.  
The others stay out of his business, as much as is possible, since they now all know the name Winchester and what it implies.

“Dean.”

“Ash.”

Dean doesn’t socialize with other hunters, but if Ash is around, they always share a drink or two. He’d call him a friend, if he allowed himself to believe hunters can be friends. Despite their shared goal, they don’t trust each other much. Everyone is on their own. May it be due to the traumatic experiences they’ve had or just their natural suspicion towards other human beings, they all seem to be cautious around each other. Some are partners, some are friends. Dean calls Bobby his friend. But he has stayed with him for months; they’ve patched each other up.  
Bobby has seen Dean cry, so that’s different. Hunters are no community.

Ash slides a beer towards him.

“What brings you here today?”

Nothing.  
Everything.  
He might not have given up on his brothers, but he has lost their trail. Nobody has seen them for weeks. Bobby helps him look for them, but even his contacts stay silent. Somebody would know if they had died. Instead, they have simply vanished.

Dean shrugs. “Same old.”

Ash sighs, shakes his head softly. Ellen turns at the other side of the bar, watches them for several heartbeats, before she turns back to her task of cleaning mugs. Something seems tense between her and Ash. The other looks her way, averts his gaze, sighs again. He peels the label off his beer bottle.

“Ash?”

He turns towards Dean, asks him to follow into the private chambers at the back of the roadhouse. Dean has never been back there. He knows the bar, the pool table, the little stalls they call toilet, but he has never been to a private part of the house.  
Together they step through a corridor, down into the basement.  
In the middle of the room a man sits, bound to an iron chair, surrounded by red, glowing symbols all over the floor. The air is icy cold, Dean can see white smoke as he exhales. The skin on his arms tingles, his feet shake. There’s energy in this room, a dark, powerful magic at work. The man looks at him, his eyes jet-black.

“Winchester.” It smiles.

Dean stops. His whole frame trembles, he feels glued to his spot.  
Demon.  
A demon.  
Instinct makes him reach for his gun, even though he knows it’s useless. Bullets don’t kill demons. Nothing kills demons. You can hurt them, bind them, make sure they have a hard time coming back from where you sent them, but you can’t kill them. Every hunters knows that. Every demon knows it. So all they can do is play games together. Sometimes a hunter wins, sends the black eyed bitches back to where they came from – but not forever. One day they come back. For vengeance. Ash should know better than to play with this fire.

Ash steps close to Dean, keeps a hand on his elbow and prevents him from shooting the thing bound in front of them. “Dean. Wait.”

He steps towards the demon, seemingly unafraid, unimpressed, even as the creature hisses and curses. It’s been roughed up. There’s blood on the beige shirt, bruises on its cheeks and neck.  
The man whose body the demon took over, is probably dead already. That is what demons can do best. Kill. They play around with the bodies of their victims, sometimes find a few hunters to kill before they let themselves be exorcised. And when they come back it starts all over again.

“Ash-“ what are you doing?!  
His throat his dry, his words raspy. Dean can’t manage more then the first syllable of his question. What is going on? Why? How? What happens now, why did Ash want him to come back down here, why does the demon know his name, why-

“Tell him.” Ash orders the demon. He has stepped into the demon trap painted beneath the chair. He holds a small bottle of water in one hand, a wooden cross in the other. He chants Latin under his breath.  
The demon trembles. But it smiles, locks eyes with Dean. “Winchester,” it mumbles. “Nice meeting you-“  
The first splash of Holy Water hits its face. It burns, evaporates. The demon hisses. And then it does tell Dean what Ash wants him to.

_He’s dead. We took him. He’s ours now._

Ash kills the host (if he wasn’t dead already), bans the demon.  
Afterwards he sits down with Dean inside the Devil’s Trap.

Dean doesn’t need to ask who the Demon meant. That’s why he hasn’t heard any news of the Twins in months. They got one of them. For months the demons had followed their trail and finally caught up to them. Dean was too late. He couldn’t keep them safe, couldn’t make them leave this life before another tragedy happened. They lost their mother, then their father and now… now, one of them is dead. It doesn’t matter who. Adam, Nicholas, either of them would despair at the loss of the other. It’s over. Done.

“Dean, listen,” Ash turns his face towards him. Their shoulders touch. Dean hadn’t even noticed the other getting so close. His body shakes, tears have gathered in his eyes. He has failed them. Failed his brothers.  
Ash speaks up again. “Dean, listen,” he tries again to voice his thoughts, “Demons… demons don’t let themselves be captured. He came here. On his own. He came so close to the Roadhouse, we had to notice him. Dean, do you understand?”

Dean turns towards him, watches his face through a blurry veil. Ash is a genius, Dean knows that for sure. The other knows all exorcisms by heart, which weapon can kill which monster, how to properly detect and destroy any sort of hex bag, and everything else a hunter ought to know to survive in this world. Ash just knows all of that. He’s not bulky or strong, but his mind and eyes are sharp. Other hunters are no match for him when it comes to plans and plotting.

If a demon came here, knowing that the Roadhouse is a gathering place for hunters from all states, he knew what he would be getting into. He came here for a reason then.

“To deliver a message.”

Dean nods. He came here to tell them about The Twins. No, to tell him about them. He had been waiting for him to show up.

“How- how long- had you kept him here?” Dean’s voice shakes slightly. There’s anger, mixed with pain. What do they want to accomplish with this? Why send a messenger, just to let him know they killed one of his (half-) brothers? Dean hasn’t been a hunter for long and never has he crossed paths with a demon before. Sure, he had to deal with their fallout on occasions, but he hasn’t gotten in their way yet. In the front, sitting at the bar or playing pool, are 2 hunters who have already sent a few demons back to hell. They bear the scars to prove it. That’s what they claim, at least.

“A week.” Ash sighs. “Didn’t believe him at first. Thought he was messing with me. Everyone knows the T… knows about your brothers and what fine hunters they are. Didn’t believe him. Thought he was just messing with me. You know. Telling me how strong and fearless they were and they’d be able to kill me easily if they managed to take out… you know.”

Everyone calls them The Twins. But they are more than that. To Dean, they are his brothers. They have names. Their defining trait isn’t that they are twins. They’re Dean’s family.

Dean knows he shouldn’t ask, but he has to.  
_Who?_ – Because he can’t bear wondering.  
_When?_ – He must have missed the chance to do something about it.  
_Where?_ – How far from home, how far from their once peaceful life have they strayed?  
_How?_ – He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t, no, but he has to, he just has to.

  
Ash wouldn’t have killed the bastard without getting all information from him first. And he tells Dean.

“Something’s coming, Dean.” Ash continues after a short pause. But his tone has changed. He sounds worried, scared even. The demon didn’t scare him. Ash took his knife, his Holy Water and cross, went to work, finished the job. Easily. But now his voice trembles ever so slightly. Dean can only tell because they sit so close together. He can feel the tremors going through Ash’s body.

“Dean.” Ash turns to him, stares at him. One heartbeat, two, three, – “It said… a war is coming.”

But why warn them?

Why warn him?

 

 

**********

 

 

_There’s no breeze outside. The curtains don’t sway, as he brushes them aside. The blue window frame creaks, his fingers feel the rough, weather induced sharp edges of the woods where it starts to splinter. The sky’s grey, dark, just light enough to see towards the horizon, where land and sky merge in a blurry line._

_He walks across the street, steps over wooden planks, tires, dirt and rotten leaves. Car wrecks lead the way, deeper into the town. The brick buildings left and right are dark red, sprayed with paint, left with bloody fingerprints of time. There are no birds, no rustling of leaves, no voices, no sound. The wind doesn’t howl, his steps don’t echo. He’s alone._

_He passes by a rotting refrigerator, a cupboard, seemingly thrown from one of the buildings on the side, a Barbie doll with missing limbs. He’s alone. Left with the proof of human existence, that’s now rotting away in the streets and buildings. But then he finds her._

_She’s small, tiny, abandoned. Her hair’s a mess and her clothes torn. Blood drips from her lips, splashes unto the ground._

_“Are you hurt?”_

_She is. But she lunges for him, wielding a shard of glass. She gets his arm, hisses, he groans. She’s a child, a tiny little being, innocent, her life still ahead of her. Why is she so angry, so feral, so dangerous, so-_  
_She jumps forward again, he ducks, the shard misses his throat barely. He has to do it, he has to! One punch, right at the temple. She falls, stays down._

_When he looks around, he is no longer alone. Men and women march through the street, right to the alley he has wandered into. Their clothes are as dirty and torn as the little girl’s were. Their eyes are blown wide and their smiles show teeth. Every single one of them stares at him, reaches for him. They break into a run, as does he._  
_He has to get away, he has to flee, he has to get away, run, run faster, run, run!_

_Their steps echo behind him, he can hear their groans, hear the fluttering of their clothes. His heart aches from exhaustion, he has to jump and doge, to get past the clutter in the streets. They’ll rip his throat out, he knows, once they get his hands on him he’s done. Faster and faster he runs; he can’t get away, they’re still right behind him, still right there, they’ll get him, they’ll get him-_

_Bullets pierce the sky. Glass windows break. An engine roars. Blood splatters. He can hear the dull thuds of bodies dropping to the ground. He ducks away, his heart about to break into pieces, his breath erratic, blood rushing in his ears. Run!_  
_He does, he crawls, he rolls out of the war zone, finds an alley, hides behind a building, down, at the ground, claws at his ears and temples. The sound of slaughter still echoes, far away._

_The end of the world._

 

 

**********

 

 

“That’s a stupid idea.”  
Ellen

“But we gotta do something!”  
Jo

“You want to hide here? Don’t think that’ll do us much good.”  
Ash

“He’s right.”  
Bobby

“So you think it’s a good idea?”  
Ellen

“You wanna wait for whatever mess is growing out there to come to you?”  
Bobby

“Mom, he’s right.”  
Jo

“You stay out of it!”  
“But he’s right!”  
“We shouldn’t wait for them to come to us, when we could easily-“  
“Not easily, we don’t know what’s coming and we can’t run into it blindly.”  
“You think they’d tell us more than we already know?”  
“You should have tried.”  
“I did, I-“  
“It’s not his fault that-“  
“It was his idea to-”  
“Mom, I kno-“  
“How could you-“

“I’ll go.” Dean cuts into the argument. Because he has been silent so far, they turn to him. Bobby does so first, followed by Ash and soon Ellen and Jo turn to him as well.  
“I’ll go.” Dean repeats. His hands are sweaty, he can feel his frantic heart against his ribcage.

“The message was for me.”  
That terrifies him.

“They want me to take part in, whatever this is.”  
He is scared, he has no plan.

“They are family. My family.”  
He can’t forgive what they did.

“We need more information. We gotta be prepared.”  
Or else they’ll fail.  
He’s not going to let this be the end of the world.

Bobby keeps watching him, his eyes half proud of the hunter Dean has become since that first day in the woods, half terrified he won’t ever see him again if they split up now. “Dean-“

“Bobby.” Dean steps towards him and lays a hand against his shoulder. “I need you to find out more. Is this a war? Is it something else? Whatever information the creatures of this world are hiding, I know you’ll get it out of them.”

By now, not only the Vampires have gone into hiding. It’s been weeks since any hunter in the roadhouse has seen a Werewolf, Rugaru, Wendigo, or anything else dangerous that’s not a demon. The black eyed monsters are everywhere - the other creatures are hiding. They wouldn’t be if they weren’t scared. Whatever they know, it terrifies them.

“It’s a trap.” Ellen reminds him.

He knows that. Why else would a demon let him know where Adam is buried? But he has to go and see, with his own eyes, if it’s all true. He owes his brother that much. If he’s- if he really- if he’s gone (dead, he’s dead), then he has to pay him his respect.

“I’ll go.” The third time he says it, he actually believes he might come back. “You’ll be my backup here.”

They want to come along, of course they do. If he goes alone, he might die. Not only would they lose a hunter who is pretty good at what he does, but also a friend. But Dean has lost a brother and he won’t compromise on this.

 

 

**********

 

 

Dean has never been to this part of Illinois and he doubts he’ll ever come back. The forest is easy to find, for the cross he needs several hours. It’s made of wood, crooked and small. No name. There’s an A carved into the front, the edges brown, as if drawn in blood.  
Adam.  
He’d be 16 now (if he were still alive).  
Here lies Adam.  
At least what remains of him, after weeks in the ground, nibbled at by worms and bugs.

Dean lets his fingers glide along the wood, feels the sharp edges. It’s a hasty grave, the cross carved from branches that had been cut right from the tree, because mold has settle into the cracks, where it had still been moist. It must have happened here. Right here. Nicholas wouldn’t have been able to drag his brother back to the nearest town. There had been no other choice but to bury him right here. Right where it happened.

A cold breeze engulfs him, makes him shiver.  
“Adam…”  
The wind carries the sound to the nearby trees. They surround the grave in a circle, as if this grave was meant to be here and the trees keep their distance, out of respect. Or Fear. It seems so unnatural, so wrong, to be standing here, to mourn the loss of someone he barely knew. But Dean feels the tears burn in his eyes. He knew enough of Adam. Enough to mourn him. Enough to love him, as the brother he was and the one he could have been.

Had he been stronger, smarter, he would have been able to prevent this.  
Had he been kinder, compassionate, not blinded by his own jealousy, it wouldn’t have come this far.  
Adam would still be alive. And Dean would be part of this life, help him and Nicholas through a hardship. They had lost their mother to a tragic accident, Dean wouldn’t have known that feeling, but he had lost a father. And he can relate.

But it’s too late. Too late now. This chance is gone and he is left to deal with the consequences of his own decisions. He chose to ignore the phone calls. This is his fault.

Dean sighs, rubs at his eyes. He won’t allow himself to cry, no, not here, not right now. He came here for a reason and he won’t forget that.  
The place seems ordinary. No sign of somebody else being here. It’s not a trap, he’d be dead by now if it were. But why did the demon lure him here? What reason did he have for telling him about the grave, about Adam and Nicholas? Demons lie, deceive, for their own benefit. But how does this help any of them?

Dean turns around. It feels like the trees are closing in.  
There are no birds, only the deep murmur of the wind surrounding the clearing. He had to park the impala beneath the trees on the side, unable to go further through the high grass. There are holes in the ground, the Impala would have been stuck before reaching the cross. Now the car is too far for him to reach quickly.  
Because something’s off about the place. Sure, there are places with no birds around, but not miles away from any town, in the middle of the forest. He should hear them. The wind blows from at least two directions. It hits his neck, tousles his hair.

Dean takes a few steps back, keeps his eyes on the cross, scans the line of the trees for movement. The direction of the wind changes again, now it blows against his ears, left and right.  
He reaches for his gun. Bobby made the bullets, they can kill pretty much anything. Except the one creature Dean expects to find here. He has a vial of Holy Water inside his pocket, but that thought doesn’t calm him. There’s a big canister in the impala’s trunk, but the car’s too far, he could run, sprint, maybe he’d reach there in time, maybe he’d make it, the car even has a devil’s trap under the roof, he could trap a demon there, if they followed him, he could-

A sound, a crack, a few branches twist and fall from the trees – Dean spurts towards the car. The air glimmers around him, grows hot, moist. Fire touches his neck, scorches his hair. Just a few steps more, just a few more, the car draws nearer, his fingers are about to reach the door-

A wave hits his back, throws him off his feet, hurls him against the driver’s door. The world turns dark. There are sounds around him, while his vision stays dark. The trees seem to be burning, the air is scorching hot and a scream rips through the air.

It takes Dean a long time to gain back his senses. He blinks until the world turns into colors and shapes again. He’s lying on his back, right beside the car. Blood runs down his temple. There’s a dent on the driver’s door and the windshield lies around him in broken shards, some have cut into his hands and arms.

A shadow falls over him.  
“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice is deep, husky, hoarse, strong, all of it combined. The words resonate deep inside Dean’s chest and he stiffens. It’s a comment, an order, by someone who hadn’t been here before. Demon, screams his mind, laced with panic and fear. You wanted me to come, here I am, cries another part of him.  
His throat is dry, all he manages is a faint cough as he tries to speak. The figure stands still before him, looking down at him. The sun gleams right behind him, casting his face in shadows. Dean can see a man, a dark, messy mop of hair, a tie, white dress shirt, is that a trench coat. And blood.

“Go.” The voice commands again.  
Then the figure turns back towards the glade, walks across the dry grass back to the cross.

It takes all of Dean’s will to pull himself up. He can’t stand, so he slumps back against the car, breathes deeply to calm his nerves. He’s still alive. The area is ravaged. The first 3 lines of trees around the glade have fallen, as if they had been cut off right above the ground. They lie in a circle, angled away from the cross. The cross itself is black, smoke rises from the wood.

A figure rises from the ground. Dark, dirty, naked. As the sun catches the blond, dirty hair, Dean’s heart skips a beat.  
Adam.  
The man in the coat steps right up to and reaches for Adam. And as Dean blinks, they vanish.

 

 

**********

 

 

Bobby knows how to do research. He’s not only good at it, he’s great at it.  
He finds a nest of vampires and captures them by himself, all 5 of them. He asks them questions, tortures them only enough to get what he’s looking for. He’s not a cruel man, but he knows what’s at stake. Once he has the information he needs, he kills them, quickly, painless.

They are monsters, he is not.

He takes everything they told him and searches his books. Names, places, symbols, omens, he finds all of it.  
Back at the roadhouse the others ask him for updates. Has he found anything? What are they dealing with? How can they prepare themselves? What do they need to do? What can they do?

“Apocalypse.” Bobby tells them, his face white and sunken. “The End. That’s what we gotta prepare for.”

 

 

**********

 

 

_Dark symbols surround them. Every flat surface, walls, ceiling, floor, are covered in black paint. Some symbols are as big as cars, others tiny, small enough to fit into a palm. Bobby looks around, watches, waits. It’s cold, nearly freezing. The seconds tick by and the wind howls outside. The noise keeps growing, a storm brews around the shack._

_He springs down from where he sat, gripping the next best weapon he can get his hands on tight. They’re waiting for someone, something to show, any sign could mean disaster. The roof cover rattles, the icy wind hisses. He can feel the air around him freeze, Bobby grabs his shotgun, draws closer. Something’s coming!_

_The door bursts open, the lights around them shatter, shards and sparks rain down on them. A figure walks right through the door, steps through fire and smoke, right up at them. It doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate in his steps._  
_It’s instinct, fear, panic, that makes him draw his gun, makes him aim, makes him and Bobby shoot, driving bullet after bullet into the moving body. The man – creature – doesn’t stop. He draws nearer._

_He feels his palms begin to sweat, the grip on his gun getting loose. He has enough time to throw it to the side, grab the knife as his last resort. It’ll do, it’ll kill this thing, yes, it will, demons are no match for it, whatever this thing is, it will not survive, it can’t._  
_The man is close enough for him to reach. He can see straight into the dark blue sea of his eyes._

_“Who are you?” His voice trembles. What are you?_

_The creature stares. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”_

_“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Neither blinks, neither moves. The creatures tilts its head, smiles, dark, dangerous, promising. Now! Now!_

_His fingers close around the handle, his arm snaps forward. The knife is sharp enough to drive itself right into the creature’s chest without much resistance; that’s it, it’s done! But the seconds pass and the man – creature – still stands. He didn’t even blink when the blade pierced his chest. He smirks again, that dark, dangerous grin that speaks of power, arrogance, superiority._

_He – it – grabs the knife, pulls it from his chest, lets it drop to the ground. Bobby falls next, taken down by an invisible force._  
_“We need to talk, Dean.” A command. “Alone.”_

_He falls down beside Bobby, checks his pulse, please be alive, please, oh Bobby, and finds his heartbeat, steady but faint. The man, or whatever he is, steps to the side. The warding did nothing, even though they made sure to include every symbol they knew, against demons, wraiths, black dogs and all other creatures they could think of. They don’t know what they’re up against, they have no way to keep themselves safe._

_He’s defenseless. Bobby’s down, the knife useless, bullets didn’t even slow the man down; what is going to happen, why are they still alive, why does he want to talk-_

_He hears himself talk, voice his fears. Who are you? What are you? His voice stays steady, while his hands shake und his heart quavers._

_Castiel._

_“I’m an angel of the lord.”_

_“Get the hell out of here!” He can’t scream, he wants to, but his voice fails him, his strength drained, his courage lost._

_The light flickers, thunder roars, black shadow, feathery wings, spread on the wall. His chest tightens, his legs shake. A dark power sweeps over him, as angel wings spread across wall and ceiling. Castiel shines, his eyes glow with light._

 

 

**********

 

 

Dean needs a few days to recover before he can drive back to the roadhouse.  
For months he had ignored his dreams, pushed them into the darkest corner of his mind that he could find. They mean nothing, how could they? They’re flickers of imagination, not even connected to memories. He’s often at places he can’t recognize, doing things he has never learned and talking to ghosts of a different lifetime.  
Sam. A brother he never had.  
Castiel. A man, a demon, a creature, he met just days ago. He feels familiar, and yet Dean is scared.

Who or whatever Castiel, that man, is, he’s powerful. Dean felt it at the glade, felt it in his dream. He’s dangerous because he’s more powerful than most creatures Dean has encountered. But angels? No. He can’t believe in them. This world is rotten, there is no god, there can be no angels. Children die, humans torture and kill each other for pleasure, demons make deals with those too selfish und scared to live on their own and change their own fate. No. There are no angels. And they are certainly not watching over him.

The cuts on his hands and arms will take weeks to heal. The deeper ones will scar. And one day, a wound won’t scar but take his life instead. He is prepared for it, he is, but how could he go now? Not without finding out what has happened on that field. If Adam is really back. And what role this man plays in it.

At the roadhouse Bobby tells him what he knows.

“Apocalypse.” Is all he says.  
The others stare at him. It’s no joke.

“A demon called Lilith,” Bobby continues, “is trying to free Lucifer from his cage.”

Apocalypse, as the Bible calls it. The beginning of the end of the world.

 

 

**********

 

 

When hunters prepare for war, it’s an ugly sight. They gather weapons, tolls and knowledge from anywhere they can - things meant to kill, to destroy. Dean prepares the impala as best as he can. Bobby showed him how to store weapons in the trunk, hide them from prying eyes while he is on a hunt. Now he uses the secret compartment to hold whatever he thinks might be effective. Dealing with demons, few things are.  
Holy water, a few herbs for some hex bags Bobby taught him to make. These things won’t kill a demon, but they’ll slow them down. Maybe enough for Dean to run to safety. It’s a gamble, Dean knows that much. He might be lucky and survive. Or he won’t. His chances are even. He leaves a last message on his mother’s voicemail. Just in case.

_Mom. Thank you._

She deserves to know, at least, what decisions he has made. How he went from Dean, the mechanic, to a hunter, carrying not only his family’s legacy, but also finding a new part of himself. He is no hero, he never will be. But what he does, changes destiny. On his hunts he has saved people – and lost some life’s to his mistakes. People are alive and dead due to him. He can’t be proud of the work he has done, but it makes a difference. For someone out there, Dean going on hunts, is the one thing that saved their life. He is their champion. That is enough.

He is about to load the last knifes and guns into the car, when Bobby walks up to him. He has a gun in his hand, holding it gently as if a rough grip might break it. Two steps in front of him, Bobby stops. He can’t look at Dean, just stares at the gun in his hands. The metal of it is old, the surface rough from the years and usage. Scratches run along the shaft, as if made by clawed fingers.

“Dean,” Bobby says. His voice trembles, his frame shakes ever so slightly. Robert Singer, the hunter, is strong, sturdy, reliable. He doesn’t flinch when faced with monsters or runs from challenges. But Bobby, the man, is as broken as any other human being could be. Dean can see it, in the reflection of pain and regret in his blue eyes, how he presses his lips into a fine line and his knuckles around the weapon turn white.

“Dean,” Bobby says again and sighs. “I never told you how I killed that demon, right?”

No, never. Bobby hadn’t offered, so Dean hadn’t asked. He had been curious, of course, who wouldn’t have been, but it hadn’t been his place to ask.

Before Dean can nod, Bobby pushes the gun against his chest. His eyes are still fixed on the metal of the weapon and Dean follows his line of sight. Up close, the gun looks anything but ordinary. It’s old, maybe even ancient, the design speaks of past times, but that’s not all, that’s strange about it. Dean can feel it pulse against his chest, brimming with energy, as if it were alive. Symbols are carved into the handle, obviously to protect the bearer from harm.

_Non timebo mala – I will fear no Evil_

Deans fingers close around the metal (I will give you the colt and the bullet. But you gotta help Dea-) and jerks right back from the electric shock spreading through his fingers and hand. The sound still echoes inside his mind; a deep, soothing baritone, that speaks of courage, serenity. Home.

“Take it. There are two bullets left.” Bobby rushes to tell him. He hesitates, but then pushes the gun right into Dean’s outstretched hand. There are no sparks this time, it’s just an ordinary weapon in Dean’s hand, heavy and cool.

The story of the Colt, how Bobby tells it, is neither glorious nor splendid. It’s one of death and regret, of a search that took years and vengeance that was fulfilled only years after its cause. Bobby’s wife was killed by a demon. He survived and lived to become a hunter. But he hadn’t been able to take the revenge he had longed for. Not for along time. But one day, when he heard of a legend, a weapon that could kill demons easily, he had to find out if it was true. “It is true,” Bobby insists with a small smile. “The bastard never knew what was coming.” And he sounds happy saying it. The demon that had taken Bobby’s happiness is dead. And the thing that gave Bobby that satisfaction lies now in Dean’s hands.

“You want to-“ he has to make sure if he has heard right “give this to me?”

Bobby remains silent for a full minute. He stares at the Colt, longs for it with an intensity even Dean can feel. Then he nods.

“Take it. There are two bullets left. Just two. You can’t forge new ones, but you can use those. You don’t know what you’re getting into. I don’t know either. But that demon… he had a message for you – and only you. You’ll need it. Just…” and Dean can hear the desperation in his voice “don’t waste them.”

_I won’t_ , he whispers against Bobby’s neck, nearly crushing him in their first – maybe last – embrace.

 

 

**********

 

 

Without any leads, there’s only once place Dean can go.

He’d rather be anywhere else, but this is the place the demon told him about and he knows this is where he ought to be. One thing he doesn’t know, if this will be a place of glory for him, or his last rest. He refused to let anyone come with him. The message was for him and he has to follow it.

It’s been two weeks of preparation. The cross is still standing in the middle of what once used to be a glade. The trees still lie around it, facing outward. They were cut, clean from the trunk and scorched from the bottom up. A fire had burned them, not enough to turn them to ashes, but to mar them significantly. The cross has turned dark. It stands there on its own, surrounded by black grass. Here, Adam came back alive. Dean had seen him crawl out of the dirt and stand tall once more, after he had been captured, killed and buried.

Maybe, just maybe, this will be too much for him, too big to comprehend. He shouldn’t get involved, no, he’ll end up torn to shreds, he knows that. He has been a hunter for more than a year, which makes it easier for him to deal with anything Supernatural, but angels and demons, fighting? War? That’s a little too big for him.

Years ago, when Mary had first opened up about John, about Sam (Sammy) and how her life had fallen to pieces after parting her husband, Dean had vowed to stay strong, not only for her, but for himself as well. He had been but a child when circumstances had forced him to take care of himself. He can deal with hardships, being broke, trying to get by in society, but how to fight his way out of a war zone, that’s something he never had to do before.  
He has the colt inside the pocket of his jacket. He can feel the fabric move with every step and it calms him, somehow. If a demon were to ambush him, he could defend himself.

But he has promised Bobby to not waste the bullets he has. There are two left, just two. What can he do with only two bullets? He can’t defend himself against attackers, he can’t threaten a group of enemies and he certainly can’t take revenge on the creatures he wishes he could. Whatever killed John, whatever killed Adam, these creatures are still out there. And Dean can’t hunt them.

If Lucifer is coming – if there even is such a thing as The Devil – Dean will need the Colt to be loaded and ready.

The glade seems more peaceful today, despite the evident destruction. Dean can hear birds chirp and a gentle breeze rustle the leaves of the fallen trees. But he also feels a glooming darkness nearby, or rather a dark, powerful energy. It’s pulling at him from two different directions.  
Slowly, he steps up to the cross. It’s burned badly, so dark Dean can’t see the carved A anymore, that told him whose grave he was looking at. Now it’s but a memento of a human life lost.

Dean stares down at it. Adam was, is, his brother. They share the same blood, the same genetics. Maybe the same fate. Why else would they both end up hunters in this vast world? But Dean doesn’t bow before fate. He’s still here. Many times he survived a hunt due to his skills, maybe a bit of luck, despite the circumstances. He has enough scars to prove it. He should be dead by now, others certainly would be, but his wounds had always closed. Some hadn’t even scarred. Fate has nothing to do with it. And Dean won’t accept Adam’s death, not that easily. He might be unable to change it, if Adam still is dead, and the human he saw and thought was Adam, had just been a figment of his imagination, but, even if he can’t change it, he won’t forget it. And he can make whoever or whatever is responsible for it, pay.

“You shouldn’t be here.” A voice breaks through his thoughts.

He whips around and stares into a face he can barely recognize. It’s Nicholas, it has to be, it must be. His eyes – eye – is dark, blue as it used to be, but dull and tinted with grey. The other, or where the other used to be, is scarred and raised flesh. The lid looks sewn shut. A long, narrow scar pulls down his cheek, all the way from his forehead.  
A woman is with him. Brown eyed, dark haired, tiny compared to his tall frame. She stares at Dean, openly hostile, and keeps looking around as if searching for threats.

“Nicholas-“ Dean reaches for him.

He shakes his head. “Go, Dean. Leave.”

And before they can exchange any more words, before Dean can beg Nicholas to forgive him for letting them down when they might have needed him, another presence appears on what used to be a glade.  
It’s Castiel (if that really is his name, but Dean’s desperate for answers, explanations, and his dreams are likely the only he’ll ever get and he clings to them, because he has nothing else).

He’s wearing his trench coat, bloodied and dirty at the hems, and the suit underneath. He doesn’t stare at Adam, but at the woman accompanying him. Both their stares turn heated, because she freezes on her spot, her posture tense, while Castiel takes a step forward as if to attack her. She pulls a knife from her jacket the same time Castiel pulls a rounded sword from his coat.

“Castiel.” Nicholas speaks his name with a hint of disgust and anger.

“You have no place here.” Castiel ignores him, focuses on the woman instead.

They’ve forgotten about Dean. He’s standing close to them, just a few steps away, but they have not acknowledged his presence any further and they surely won’t, not with the tension radiating off them, the anxiety and strain Dean can feel in the air around them. They’re not friends and they don’t meet for pleasure.

“She’s here with me. And she stays.” Nicholas steps in front of her, to shield her, make his point clear. “Where is he?”

“Not your concern.” Castiel counters. He smirks. Dean remembers that same smile from his dream, so full of confidence and scorn for someone else way below himself. It’s chilling. But despite Castiel’s open hostility, Nicholas doesn’t back down. Even Dean can feel the air vibrate with surging power, but neither Nicholas nor the woman seem scared. She isn’t even hiding behind Nicholas, she has taken a step to the side to face Castiel directly if she must.

Dean makes the mistake of moving a step backwards. A force, as strong as a car crashing into you at full speed, throws him backwards. The impact alone shatters his left shoulder, his wrists and several ribs. He lands on the grass, sharp pain grips his whole body, and he screams.

_He’s walking towards the kitchen sink, leans back against it. His heart hammers so loudly, he thinks he can hear it. “Well, bang-up job so far. Stellar work with the witnesses. That's nice.”_

Dean groans, hisses. He’s on his back, his shoulder twisted and turned, every intake of breath rattles. A rib must have pierced his lung. His vision is blurred, everything’s fuzzy, dark shapes against a white background-

_“There are other battles, other seals. Some we'll win, some we'll lose.” Castiel walks closer, Dean can feel the pressure of his aura weigh down on him. He’s close enough to touch; Dean can smell him, nearly taste him-_

The world goes in and out of focus. There’s the sky, blue, clouded, then there’s the kitchen, dark, gloomy, he’s lying on the ground, next second he’s leaning against the kitchen sink – all sensations mingle and clash together, leave him gasping with disorientation, pain, panic-

_Castiel leans in close, light flickers in his eyes, the color of his irises shifts, blue and grey, dark and light. “Our numbers are not unlimited. Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of heaven should just follow you around? There's a bigger picture here.” He whispers, but the words echo inside Dean’s mind loud, clear, piercing-_

Blood gathers in his thorax and throat, he coughs, chokes-

_“You should show me some respect.” Leans in even closer; too near, too close, too much-_

His heart stops-

_“I dragged you out of hell. I can throw you back in.”_

 

 

**********

 

 

With a startled gasp, Dean wakes.  
All pain, blood, panic – gone. He awakes on the grass where he fell down, but his shoulder doesn’t ache and his wrists don’t dangle on his arm. The broken bones feel mended, restored to normal. There’s no blood in his mouth and his vision is clear. The blue sky is right above him. As is Castiel’s face. The angel – thing, creature, there are no angels, no, can’t be – kneels beside him, a hand touching his bare shoulder. Dean feels warm from the contact; and not only warm, but tingly, soothing. Castiel stares at him, the composed, confident look wiped from his face. His eyes are huge, blown wide with confusion.

Dean tries to move and as if burned Castiel draws back from the touch. His fingers leave raised, dark red skin on Dean’s arm. A handprint.

“Wha-“ Dean tries to speak, but as the connection between them is cut, his body sags back down.

Castiel inhales. “I don’t know who you are Dean Winchester, but you should stay out of this.” he tells him, mimics his confident tone of their earlier meeting, but Dean can hear the slight tremble, the insecurity. Fear.

“I tended to your wounds. Take this as a last chance. Nicholas will kill you next time.”

The sound of feathers ruffling, then Castiel is gone.

_“I serve Heaven, I don't serve man. And I certainly don't serve you.”_

The words are so clear in his mind, as if Castiel had spoken them right to him. But the other is gone. Dean had vivid dreams since everything started, when he went on his first trip to Bobby’s place and set on the journey to become a hunter. But now, reality and vision clash. He remembers lying on the grass, choking on his own blood, yet he also had been standing in a dark kitchen, talking with Castiel, fearful and scared of his reaction.

He can’t be losing his mind.

Dean has no idea how long he remains on the grass and stares ahead, watches white clouds pass on the sky. Physically, he feels fine; exhausted but otherwise good. He clings to the memory of his broken bones, the blood and pain. It was real! It must have been! But how can he feel better now, when just moments ago every fiber of him had been alive with burning pain? The handprint on his shoulder aches. He can still feel Castiel’s fingers on his skin, how warm and soothing that connection had been. That moment, he hadn’t been afraid of the other. Castiel could crush him easily, Dean doesn’t doubt that und every close contact shakes him. But that soft caress had calmed him instead.

While still lying down, he searches for his phone inside his pocket. It’s still intact. He calls the first number that comes to his mind.

“Dean?”

“Bobby…” A sob.

This is too big for him, too much.

 

 

******

 

 

Bobby is the first to welcome him. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t berate or lecture Dean. He just opens his arms and lets him walk right into them.

The next months are torture, for all of them. Ash finds a group of werewolves, that are hiding from the war outside. They cooperate, tell them what they want to know. The demons hunt anything they can get their claws on. Many other werewolves have died, so the ones still alive hid themselves to stay safe. They know that the hunters have suffered great loss as well. They aren’t cocky about it – they are scared.

Bobby gets his hands on a few books that talk about the apocalypse they are dealing with. The bible is a little obscure, but the centuries old books give an insight on what’s about to happen. And it is.

Demons take out a whole town. But when other hunters came to investigate, they found no signs of possession. A few hunters were in that town when hell broke loose. None survived.

The population of one town goes crazy. Couples devour each other, literally; others indulge, be it sex, food, drugs. Everything. In the end, they all die.

Several towns are infected. All citizens fall victim to a virus, which makes them aggressive, bloodthirsty. Evil. They kill each other for fun and spread the virus across states. The government has no counter plan; there is no cure.

A few towns get whipped out. Completely. Citizens vanish, all of them, and leave no clues behind.

_The horsemen are loose._

Bobby finds out how the signs happen, when, but Castiel is the one who tells Dean why.

He comes to him in his dreams. First Dean thinks he is dreaming just like he usually does, visions of a life he never had. He is walking through a forest, but there’s nothing threatening him and he isn’t scared for his life. Castiel appears between a line of tress. He watches Dean, that’s all he does, and shortly after he disappears. Dean remembers the dream when he wakes in clear detail.

The next dreams are similar. Dean wanders through his dreams, wherever they take him, and Castiel watches him. He never talks, never comes close, he watches from a distance and leaves once Dean notices him. He doesn’t seem embarrassed when Dean realizes he’s there, but there is something shameful in the way he hides and quickly vanishes each time. He doesn’t dare to meet Dean’s eyes.

For weeks, Dean is aware of Castiel prying on his dreams, at least when Dean is alone in them. Anything with Sam, Bobby, countless other faces with familiar names, which feel more like visions than dreams, Castiel stays out of. Dean wants to call him out on it, to catch him doing it and demand he leave him be, but Dean is never aware of his dreams until his eyes fall on Castiel. And before realization has hit completely, the other is always gone. Until one night.

Dean is sitting near a lake, a beer in one hand, fishing rod in the other. He doesn’t recognize the place and he has never been fishing before. It must be a dream. As Dean realizes it, he seizes his chance. “Castiel!” he shouts. Surely he is already here.  
He is. He walks forward, towards the lake and stops right beside Dean’s chair.

“You told me to stay out of it.” Dean hisses “And yet-“

“Yet, here I am. I realize how that must seem to you.” Castiel cuts him off. He sounds weary, tired. “I don’t want to seek you out.” But he does. Something draws him here every other night. Dean doesn’t know what; it seems neither does Castiel.

He sits down beside Dean on a chair that appears for him. The closeness doesn’t feel threatening to Dean; Castiel isn’t here to hurt him or he would have done so weeks ago, after Dean first found him in one of his dreams.

“Yet here you are.” Dean whispers. The beer in his hand is lukewarm. It tastes stale.

“I dream of you.” Castiel blurts out. “The way I can dream. It’s-“ he hesitates for a moment. It’s weird. Dean has never seen the other so insecure. The time he met Castiel face to face and in the dreams he had of him, the other was always full of confidence, righteousness, power. Now he seems scared. Dean feels the same. “It’s confusing.” Castiel sighs. He reaches for Dean, pushes the shirt upwards on his arm until his handprint is visible. His fingers close around the mark before Dean can edge away.

The same warmth he felt the first time spreads through him once more. In the real world, the mark has faded from his skin already, but here it is a prominent as on the first day. The connection between them is strong, powerful. Castiel can’t understand it either, or he wouldn’t be here. Dean can feel a bond forge between them. His insides tickle. Not blood, organs or tissue, but the core of him, whatever spark that makes him be (his essence, his soul), it reacts to Castiel’s touch.  
Dean wakes but the heat remains on his skin.

 

 

**********

 

 

It happens in Detroit.

On a trail long gone cold, Dean meets Adam. At least the thing he has become.  
Face to face, they stand on the sidewalks, staring at each other across the street. Adam doesn’t look human, he doesn’t feel human. His eyes are dull, his stare is empty. One eye remains grey and white, unseeing. The air brims with power, a dark, electrifying strain that’s palpable for anybody getting close to him.

He is not alone. Creatures flock around him. They scare off any human that might dare to come too close. They are his bodyguards, escorts, followers, all in one. Dean recognizes their power and trembles. Angels are powerful, they feel divine, destructive; Dean has felt their powers rip through his own body, has seen the damage they can do in dreams, snippets of blood and pain and despair. Demons he can deal with. They are just as powerful in their own way, Dean has no way of killing them or harming them permanently, but he knows what to expect of them. They seek destruction. Angels, it seems, do the same, but, and that’s what terrifies him, he can’t be sure.

And Adam has joined them in their crusade. Whatever they did to him, how they managed to free him from death, bring him back to life, has changed him. He stares at Dean as if he doesn’t recognize him. He looks at him and then right through him, before he continues his walk down the street. His bodyguards recognize Dean (How? Why?) and happily hurry along. They smirk at Dean, cocky, confident. Dean rushes out of the city as fast as he can.

Demons have followed Adam into town.

Some hunters make it out alive as the demons storm the city. It’s 3 am when Dean gets a call from Ash. He’s not fast enough to answer, the call goes through to his voicemail. Dean fumbles with the phone, tires to call back, gets no answer. He puts the message on speaker.

“ _Dea-_ (liquid spilling, explosions) _Dean- I, listen-_ (groans, pants) _Adam_ (a shriek) _Adam has-_ (tissue ripping, laughter) _has said Yes!_ (screams, gurgling sounds)” _–_ (dial tone)

Many don’t make it.

 

 

**********

 

 

It takes more dreams, more weeks, for Castiel to open up to him. The times Dean can manage to fall asleep, they meet in his dreams. At first they talk casually, but remain cautious, shy. Dean can’t trust Castiel; Castiel can’t trust him.  
But Dean has questions and his dreams have already given him hints and indications he can’t ignore.

“What about the seals?

“What about Lilith?”

“What about Lucifer?”

He asks. Castiel answers.  
He’s reluctant at first and vague in his explanations, but Dean can tell when he’s lying. And here, in his dreams, away from anything that’s real and plausible, he doesn’t care about Castiel’s power or who he is. He isn’t scared. Here, Dean demands the answers he seeks. And Castiel fulfills his wish. Because whatever this connection between them is, there’s a reason for it. Castiel believes it to be God’s will. Dean doesn’t dare voice his opinion.

But what Castiel tells him, crushes Dean’s hope.

Nicholas has said Yes as well. It has begun.

Castiel makes him understand what that means. What it means for the world. Lucifer. Michael. Their chosen Vessels. The End of existence as they know it.  
He looks at Dean. “If you want…”

No, he doesn’t, because he wont come back from this.

“I’ll stand with you.” Castiel says and even manages a smile, the first one Dean has seen on him. Maybe angels can read minds. Because Dean can’t do it alone. He can’t. And he won’t drag Bobby, Ellen, Jo or anyone else into this. Ash’s last voicemail still haunts his dreams. And maybe, with Castiel at his side, his tries won’t be futile. Maybe, just maybe, it will change things.

Something led him here, something bigger than himself. It made him fight monsters and survive. It enabled him to run into Adam and Nicholas and offered him a chance at redemption. And now it brought him and Castiel together. It’s not God’s will, no, Dean can’t believe in that. But if Castiel thinks it is, he won’t tell him otherwise.

“I have questions.” Castiel tells him a few times. “Why do we… just, why?” He sighs, growls; those times Dean is afraid of the other. Castiel is still powerful and frustration dangerous. But as quickly as Castiel’s temper rises, he cools down again.

Angels follow rules, Castiel has done so all his existence. But he wonders why.  
Why did they send him to earth?  
Why did he have to bring Adam back to Earth?  
Why did they insist he be the one who goes and deals with Nicholas, Ruby, Dean, or any other human involved in this mess?  
What makes him so special to be chosen for this task?  
Who decided to send him?

It couldn’t have been God. There hadn’t been a God in eons. He tells Dean all of that and Dean listens, nods, terrified why so much of what Castiel tells him seems to make sense, seems familiar.  
It does feel like they are on a path; predestined, inevitable. But Castiel refuses to blindly accept any more orders. He has his own questions, his own answer he seeks.

In some dreams, they just sit side by side, without talking, without touching. They breathe quietly, remain silent, and savor each other’s presence. Dean understands Castiel in a way he never understood anybody else. The need to be on their own, to forge their own path, to not just be their father’s son and follow some invisible footsteps that were laid out for you, is a feeling Dean shares. Winchesters, his father, had been a hero to his neighbors and family friends. They expected nothing less of Dean.

“Free will,” Castiel tells him, regretfully, “was only given to humans. You may choose your own path. Free of any boundaries.” His voice trembles, as it if is something to be envious of. Dean knows better.

“You chose to be here. Nobody told you to, nobody expects you to. You are here, because you want to be.” He tells Castiel, puts emphasize on the last part. The other is here because he wants to be at Dean’s side. Dean reaches for Castiel’s hand, holds it, presses it gently. He is grateful for Castiel’s companionship.

There is no reason for Castiel to be envious. The pain, fear, insecurity of choosing your own destiny is something Dean could do without. He’d love to follow orders, be a soldier on a mission and not care for anything else but his task. But by choosing to ignore Adam’s texts, he has set something into motion. Now he has to deal with the fallout.

But is he strong enough?

 

 

**********

 

 

_“How you feeling?”_  
_Sam’s voice is deep, concerned. Dean grunts, tries to sit up. His head buzzes, everything aches, hurts, burns. There are cuts on his skin, bloody, already crusted and dark. Everything’s hazy and blurred for a few seconds, he has to blink, steady himself. The cot is hard, it’s cold, Sam watches him with intent. If he’s back in the panic room, it can only mean one thing. They’ve trapped him here, will hold him in this prison cell for as long as it takes until he cracks. But he won’t. He has made up his mind. He’s too tired to fight this._

_“Adam’s gone.”_

_The kid doesn’t even know what he’s dealing with. Dean feels anger surface inside of him, feels it burn and torch his insides. It’s his burden to bear, not Sam’s, not Adam’s. He’s the one the angels were looking for, they need him. He’ll do it._  
_It will destroy him, it will, he’ll never walk away from this intact, he knows that much. But it’s his chance, his one chance to get this done and over with, and keep everyone else safe. Keep Sammy safe. Dying like this, that’s okay, that’s good, that’s how it should be. It should be him; only him._

_“What are you going to do?” He asks. Sam has to look for Adam, get him out of this mess, help him. He’s just a kid, he doesn’t deserve this. They’ve let him down once, Dean won’t allow it to happen a second time._

_“For starters… bringing you with.” Sam takes a deep breath, rises and walks over. He’s close enough to touch, to feel, to smell. His fingers are icy as he takes the handcuffs from Dean’s wrists. Sam doesn’t shake, despite the close proximity; he smells like smoke, sweat, dust. Dean can’t look at him. He stares at the patch of his own skin beneath the metal, watches Sam brush along it absently as he takes the cuffs off._

_“There are too many of them. We can’t do it alone.” Sam says it like he means it. Even calls Dean the only game in town, as if he’s capable of helping, only him, despite all the hunting contacts Bobby has, all the manpower they could gather in a matter of hours. Sam wants him._  
_Dean follows Sam’s movement with his eyes, watches him walk over to the table, sit down, return his gaze. His eyes are open, trusting, watching him with an affection Dean doesn’t think he deserves._

_“Isn’t that a bad idea?”_  
_Yes, Bobby and Cas think so, they know what they are dealing with, they understand Dean’s decision. Why can’t Sam? Why does he keep looking at him like this? Open, unguarded, trusting? Dean doesn’t trust himself. He can’t. He knows he’ll fold, he’ll beg them to take him and let Adam go._  
_“Well, they’re right. Because either it’s a trap to get me there to make me say yes, or it’s not a trap and I’m gonna say yes anyway. And I will. I’ll do it. Fair warning.” He will. Yes, he will._

_Sam shakes his head. “No, you won’t.” His voice doesn’t tremble, waver, his posture doesn’t change. He looks at Dean, stares at him; he isn’t afraid. Not of Dean, not of his decision._

_Dean remembers a time when it was different. When Sam lay on this cot, locked in this room for days, weeks even, because Dean had been afraid of him and what he would do. He had listened to his brother scream, beg, cry, night after night after night. Never had he opened the door, never had he taken off the cuffs or bindings, never had he even thought about it. His trust in Sam had been lost, all of it. His brother, no, this thing hadn’t been his brother, couldn’t have been, had terrified him. He had let him rot in here, on his own, and never once told him it would be okay._

_But Sam is with him. He didn’t let him suffer alone, he came back, he is at his side, watches him calmly, doesn’t fret, doesn’t flinch, stays closer to him than Dean had allowed himself to be when things had been the other way around. Sam didn’t give up on him, he’s here, with him._  
_Why?_  
_Dean has to know, just has to, why can Sam still believe in him, why can he still sit here and stay with him, despite the things he has done, despite the plans he has made, despite his own weakness when Sam had needed him? His voice shakes as he asks._

_For a moment, everything is silent._  
_“Because”_  
_It’s all in there, in that one word. Adoration, love, trust. Sam can’t feel different. It’s Dean. He can’t not love him, trust him, stand with him._  
_“You’re still my big brother.”_  
_Dean’s heart aches._

 

**********

 

 

Dean says goodbye to Bobby.

Not through words, but gestures, mimic, silence. He hugs him tightly, afraid to let go too early. Bobby notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t say anything.

He knows Bobby wants to come. But Ellen and Jo need him. They are great hunters, but they haven’t been living this life as long as Bobby has. They remember what life used to be about. Maybe they can help Bobby remember that as well.

Dean hugs both of them. As he crushes Jo against his chest, she angles her head and presses a kiss to his lips. She loves him, not yet like family, but someone who could become that. It costs Dean a lot to let go of her.

Castiel helps him leave. Dean doesn’t need the Impala when he has divine power at his side. One second they stand in Bobby’s house, the next they’re out on the streets. It’s night, dark and cold. Dean stares across the street. The lights of the windows on the house shine brightly. There she is. She walks across the living room, down the hallway into the kitchen. Dean follows glimpses of her shadow as she moves through the house.  
She is still here. She will still be here, years to come, if the world doesn’t fall. It has been 2 years since he left, but Dean is home now.

Castiel keeps his distance, waits at the side. He sneaks glances at Dean and the house, watches the shadow before he lowers his eyes. He leaves Dean to his memories.

30 minutes pass; one hour, Dean has sat down on a bench at a bus stop and keeps his eyes focused on the house on the other side of the road. Busses come and leave, some drivers sneer because they stop for nothing. But Dean ignores them, remains seated, stares ahead and watches. When the last light goes out in the house, Dean rises. Castiel lays a hand on his shoulder, looks at him, but Dean shakes his head. There is one last goodbye. The one he has saved for last because it’ll be the hardest.

He leaves Castiel close to his mother’s house, promises he’ll be back shortly. This trip he’ll have to make on his own. The little wellspring isn’t far from the city. The walk takes less than 40 minutes. Dean doesn’t know who chose this place, his mother, maybe John, maybe they asked him about it when he was 4 and couldn’t grasp yet what had happened. He was too young, he doesn’t remember, but every year he came here. Or nearly every year. Some days he had felt too tired, too drained. Sometimes his mother had gone alone. Always in May.

The place is beautiful. Secluded, hidden by trees; there’s a little spring. It’s so peaceful here, it can be unsettling.  
Today, like every time he has been here, Dean remembers. He had been 9, when he had found the files hidden in a cupboard. The sonograms, prescriptions, evaluations, all listed under Mary Winchester’s name.

_Sammy, expected birth date, May 2nd._

He hasn’t been here for 3 years. It’s not even close to May. But this is the last goodbye, the one he has to say before he can face Adam and Nicholas – whatever they have let themselves become.

The cross isn’t small, half his height, wide enough to be impressive. But it’s old, weathered, dark, from years of rain, storm and sun. The name is carved deeply into the dark wood.

_Sam_

Dean remembers his mother talking about the new baby, when her belly hadn’t even grown yet. She had been so proud, so happy. And only 2 months later, joy had turned into despair.

Samantha Rose Winchester  
Samuel Colin Winchester

His parents had pinned both names on the fridge and had waited for the doctor to tell them which they needed to take down. But that faithful day, John had ripped both off, tears in his eyes and his frame shaking wildly. Dean had fetched them from the trash and hidden them under his mattress.

“Sam,” Dean whispers, kneels down beside the grave. He trails across the carved name with his fingertips. He remembers so much of Sam, the one he met in his dreams, lived with, laughed with, cried with. Sam had been cold, hot, joyful, desperate, smart, witty, funny, stubborn, unbearable, and all his. His brother. His other half.  
Dream-Dean feels so strongly about his brother, it’s frightening. Sam makes the world go round for him. Nothing and no one is more important than him. They fight, hot tempered and ugly, but they make up just as quickly. They hug, they punch, they laugh, they cry – all together. Whenever Dean wakes up in his dreams and Sam is right there beside him, warm, breathing, alive, his heart skips a beat. This is how it’s supposed to be, his dream self thinks every time their shoulders touch, their fingers brush together, their gazes meet. This is where I belong.

The Sam of Dean’s real world isn’t the one he has dreamed of for the last two years. Dean still loves his little baby brother (sister), the one he never got to meet, grow up with, play with, love, but the Sam of his dreams is the one he yearns for. They shared laughter und joy, as much as sadness and pain. Every hardship they faced together. He envies his dream self, wishes they could trade places, despite the blood and the pain he has seen while he slept.

They good times make up for it. The dreams, when it’s just him and Sam, together, on their own, driving through the states aimlessly, are so peaceful, so perfect, Dean never wants to wake from them. At night, him and Sam stop in the middle of nowhere, take lukewarm beers from their trunk, sit on the hood and gaze at the stars. They watch, drink, breathe in silence. For hours it’s just them and the beauty of creation surrounding them. As it should be.

One last time Dean’s fingers glide along the carved letters. If he were braver he’d ask Castiel what he craves to know, but he fears the answer might crush him. If he dies tomorrow, can he be with Sam? Will he know peace? Is there a place for Sammy, where he’s waiting for him?

“Sammy, I-“ Dean struggles for words, tears blur his sight. A shiver crawls down his spine. In his mind, the Sam of his dreams smiles. He reaches for Dean’s hands, holds them, rubs his thumb along the back. _It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you, I’m here,_ he murmurs.  
“I wish you could have been real.” A whisper.  
In the last two years he has been, in dreams full of joy and sorrow; everything Dean had ever wanted. Everything he had ever needed. “I would have-… I-… lo-“

_Sammy_

_I love you_

_Goodbye_

When he gets back to Castiel, his tears have dried. He’s ready.

 

 

**********

 

 

The sky burns.

It rains smoke.

Castiel is crushed to dust.

Dean is burned to ashes.

 

 

**********

 

 

_The World_

_falls_


End file.
